


Turned Upside Down

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aftermath, Alien Technology, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Difficult Paths, Explicit Sexual Content, Guilt, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Rank Disparity, Romance, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Alexander Hamilton has always been devoted to his captain; he never intends to admit just how deep his devotion runs. When an away mission goes intimately wrong, both men are left reeling. Hamilton knows there's no going back. But how can he make things right if Washington won't even look at him?Or: the one where Washington is a starship captain and away missions are terrible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aidennestorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/gifts).



> This story is Sci-Fi fusion. Primarily Star Trek, with some liberties taken.
> 
> Heed the Archive Warnings: this is ultimately a romance, but it does contain noncon (neither character consents to their first intimate encounter), and there's some difficult ground to cover. If reading these themes upsets you, you may want to give this story a pass.

The city is an absolute marvel of a structure, an endless bunker stretching beneath the planet's surface. It's a complicated honeycomb of medical bays, control centers, living quarters, transport hubs, science labs. The corridors are empty and quiet, despite the ancient distress signal meandering weakly past the region's only star.

The distress signal is why they're here—an echo so faint that the ship's long distance sensors barely detected the pattern.

The planet they've found is devoid of sentient life, its surface swept nearly clean. The crumbled remnants of cities could almost be mistaken for natural topography, broken down and overgrown, smoothed over by wind and rain and harsher elements. There is nothing left.

But below the surface they've found more. An endless infrastructure of tunnels and technology. There's no life down here, at least none they've been able to find. Ship sensors claim there's nothing. Washington has insisted on confirming with localized scans, a dozen away teams searching deeper into the sprawling underground city. Empty. Abandoned.

There is no one here. Every step, every checkin, every scan confirms. This is no longer a rescue mission. It's become a different sort of mystery. Washington insists on knowing what happened; his crew is more than happy to dig until they find answers.

The technologies they've discovered in the city are impressive. The people who lived here weren't a spacefaring society, but just a few alternate lines of inquiry and they could have been. Hamilton is no scientist himself, but he can appreciate the machinery and computers that fill this space. The prevalence of science labs, of long defunct experiments, of one particular chamber that looked very much like the inside of an antimatter containment unit. The people who lived here have been dead for a hundred years, but their curiosity still glows at the decaying edges of the world they left behind.

An improbable amount of equipment is still running. The crew hasn't tracked down the source of the failing distress signal, but there are plenty of other things to keep them busy.

Hamilton peers at the readouts on his scanner, his footsteps pausing in the middle of the corridor. Just ahead, his captain shoves a shoulder against a particularly stubborn door. Washington's muscles strain beneath the crisp lines of his uniform jacket, the gray material stretching with his efforts. There's no dust in this wing—cleaning and air reclamation systems are still functional—but none of the door mechanisms are working. Most can be opened with a minimum application of brute strength; this one must be badly stuck to give Washington so much trouble.

Hamilton's gaze rises to track the captain's movements. They're alone in this corridor—the away teams have long since split up into pairs to cover more ground—which means he can appreciate the view for a moment. Only a moment. It wouldn't do for Washington to turn around and catch him looking.

"What I don't understand," Hamilton says, ignoring Washington's grunt of satisfaction as the panel finally slides inward, "is why they moved underground in the first place. There's no evidence of the atmosphere ever being unbreathable, no obvious pathogens that our sensors could detect."

He drops his eyes again as he starts forward. He can feel his captain watching him, but focuses on scanning the way ahead.

"I'm more curious what killed them," Washington counters, though he looks untroubled when Hamilton draws to a stop beside him. The corridors are warm, and Washington unfastened the front of his jacket half an hour ago, revealing the black shirt beneath. There's a faint sheen of sweat across Washington's brow as he picks the supply pack off the ground and hoists it over one shoulder. "And why a pre-warp civilization bothered turning a distress signal out into space before they died."

"I can't tell you what killed them," Hamilton says, "but the distress signal? It makes sense. _Look_ at this place. It's _all science_. Existential questions, trying to make sense of everything they could get their hands on. Why wouldn't they turn their attention outward in search of help?"

"Hmm." The sound is not quite agreement, but it's close enough.

Hamilton takes the lead as they move into a new stretch of intersecting hallways, splitting his attention between the path ahead and the screen in his hands. Washington falls a step behind without protest. They've been down here for hours and have yet to find anything dangerous. Plenty of self-powered labs and experiments that they've marked for further investigation, but nothing to raise their guard. Nothing worrying.

When Washington's combadge chirps, Hamilton stops walking and glances back over his shoulder.

"Schuyler to Washington." Angelica's voice sounds tinny over an imperfect comm channel, signal breaking through interference from the unique ores composing the planet's crust.

Washington touches the insignia on his chest. "Go ahead, Commander."

"Sir, we found the source of the distress call. It's a major communications hub. There's all kinds of equipment still running, and Eliza's identified a database of encrypted command logs."

"Was she able to _decrypt_ them?" Washington asks. There's a glint of intense interest in his eyes at the possibility of answers.

"Yes." Eliza's voice cuts more smoothly through the interference, calm and steady as a mountain. "Only the most recent, but I'll download the rest before we beam back to the ship. There's a lot of information here, sir. These people recorded _everything_."

"Any explanation of what happened to them?" Washington asks before Hamilton can grow impatient enough to interrupt.

"That and more," Eliza says. "I'll prepare a full write-up when I'm back aboard, but short version: there was a war. It ended in some kind of artificial natural disaster—they lost control of their own technology. Retreating underground was meant to protect them. I'm… not sure how. But it seems to have worked. They lived beneath the surface for a dozen generations. Long past the natural breakdown of the dangerous technology on the planet's surface."

"Then what the hell happened?" Hamilton interjects, unable to hold back any longer. "Where did they all _go_?"

"There were other weapons. Biological agents." Eliza's voice takes on a harder edge. "Their own medicine could only buy them so much time. They thought they had repaired the damage, but at least one of these chemical agents snuck into the genetic makeup of the populace. It stayed dormant for generations. When it started killing people they obviously tried to save themselves, but… clearly they failed."

God, what a shitty way to go. A whole civilization killed by the screw-ups of a generation centuries before. Hamilton can see how broadcasting a distress signal into space might have seemed like their last possible salvation.

Washington's voice is somber when he asks, "Are _we_ in any danger from these chemical agents?" Their scans would have picked up any hazardous contaminants, but Hamilton shivers at Washington's question anyway. It's not a pleasant thought.

"No, sir," Angelica answers. "There's nothing left. We're perfectly safe to keep exploring the city."

"Good." Washington's shoulders ease. "Carry on, Commander. We'll see you in a few hours. Washington out."

For several seconds there is quiet, as both Hamilton and Washington absorb the weight of unpleasant information. Though the empty city made it obvious the people who built it were long gone, there's something grim about knowing exactly how they died. Despite the satisfaction of a mystery solved, Hamilton shivers imagining such a bleak end.

"We should continue forward," Washington says at last. He adjusts the pack on his shoulder and glances past Hamilton, farther down the curving corridor.

"Yes." Hamilton faces forward once more, fussing with his scanner settings. "I'm seeing energy spikes to the west. We should try and find a junction that will let us turn left."

It's slow going as they veer closer to the unsteady readings. The doors they pass through still aren't opening automatically. Power in this area seems an unreliable commodity, and Hamilton is glad for the equipment in the pack Washington carries. He could care less about the phasers they haven't needed, or the standard medical kit, but the breathing apparatus is reassuring. This far below ground, surrounded by so many tightly confined spaces, it's good to know they won't suffocate if something goes wrong.

"A little light, sir?" Hamilton says when the power gives out and the corridor falls to shadow. According to his readings air circulation systems are unaffected, but the faint emergency lights edging the floor aren't enough to explore by. A moment's audible shuffling behind him and a beam of light cuts forward across Hamilton's path, illuminating the hall ahead. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Washington answers dryly. The barest hint of amusement smoothes the words.

Once upon a time Hamilton might have doubted his ears—it's hard to reconcile _any_ amount of amusement with Washington's stern countenance—but he knows better now. They've worked together long enough to have grown… not _close_ exactly. Not anywhere near as close as Hamilton would like. But mutually familiar. There's a sturdy foundation of understanding between them despite their differences—despite Hamilton's impetuousness and Washington's infrequent but powerful flares of temper—and Hamilton knows the hint of amusement is real.

"We're getting close." He rounds a corner into a wide hallway. Half a dozen identical doors stand on either side, but it's the work of a moment to pinpoint which one guards the source of the readings. "There. I still can't tell what's causing the fluctuations. Some kind of machinery… it's not particularly stable. Honestly, sir, it looks like it could lose power at any moment."

"It's not explosive, is it?" Washington's tone makes it clear just how thrilled he is at the idea of finding a potential explosion on the other side of that door.

"Definitely not. If I had to guess, I'd say it's some kind of medical equipment. It's giving off all kinds of energy, not just electrical. Psi waves and graviton spikes." He wishes John were here; John would know what to make of all this noise. But John Laurens is half a quadrant away, and Hamilton will simply have to do his best.

"Is it _dangerous_ ," Washington presses.

Once they're inside, they won't be shielded from any of the crap that equipment is broadcasting. If it can hurt them, then curiosity or not, this is one door they shouldn't open.

But Hamilton's scanner isn't giving him any warnings. "Nothing here should be damaging to human life, but we might feel a little strange."

"Strange _how_ , Hamilton?"

"Hell if I know." He shrugs. "Only one way to find out."

The look Washington throws him is exasperated. Hamilton moves forward anyway.

The door activates automatically at his approach, but freezes halfway open. It's enough for a glimpse at the slightly better lit interior of the room, still dim but with a line of subsidiary panels glowing near the ceiling.

Washington steps through first, easing sideways to fit broad shoulders through the not quite open door. Hamilton follows. It's _loud_ inside. A dozen skinny computer towers span from floor to ceiling, their surfaces glowing with guttering shades of blue and green. Wedged against the wall, at the very center of the lineup, a flat console stands hip-high, sturdy and smooth. It shares the faint and unsteady shivering of blue and green. Whatever those towers are doing, they're doing their damnedest to keep at it despite the unreliable supply of power. Clicking and humming noisily, sounds occasionally overpowered by a louder buzz of activity. Hamilton wouldn't need to shout to be heard, but it's still an uncomfortable cacophony.

His head _does_ feel strange. Fuzzy. His thoughts wind tight, warm at the edges. He should have his eyes on the scanner readout, but his attention is elsewhere as he follows his captain deeper into the room, towards the console by the wall. His skin feels too hot. A sensation like vertigo twines at the base of his skull, and his feet are heavy as they carry him forward.

His spine is suddenly itching with the need to—

The need to—

Fuck, he doesn't know _what_ he needs, but he burns with it. He's overheating in his uniform, wants to yank his jacket off and throw it the ground. His head is spinning. Maybe coming in here was a bad idea after all. The waves given off by the machinery might not be damaging, but they're damned unpleasant.

He reaches Washington's side at the console.

Up close he has no more idea what they're dealing with than he did from the corridor outside. He barely spares the console a glance; he's more preoccupied with Washington. With the tight line of his shoulders, the fitted cut of his uniform, the way the stiff gray material shapes itself to the strong legs and body of his captain. The open line of the jacket and the tight shirt beneath. The rigid way Washington is suddenly holding himself as he directs the beam of his flashlight and stares down at flickering blue and green.

"Sir?" The word is unwieldy on Hamilton's tongue. "Maybe we should—"

The flashlight drops from Washington's hand and clatters to the floor, winking out, followed an instant later by a heavier thunk of the pack sliding off Washington's shoulder. Hamilton has only a second to wonder what's wrong before Washington's hands are on him, grabbing him by the hips and dragging him close.

Hamilton breathes a low grunt in surprise, but Washington moves before he can voice the frantic _What the hell, sir?_ on the tip of his tongue. Strong hands shift from Hamilton's hips to hold onto him elsewhere—one curling at the nape of his neck, forceful and possessive—one trailing along the electrified length of his spine. 

Between one breath and the next Washington's mouth is on him, crushed against Hamilton's own. Entitled. Hungry.

And oh, God, _this_ is what Hamilton needs. He parts his lips, opens wider for the exploring thrust of his captain's tongue.

It takes the downward slide of Washington's hand for Alexander's rational mind to stutter a protest. There's a broad palm stroking lower, curving around his ass, and the touch jars him back into his own head. Not completely—Washington's mouth feels too perfect—but enough to realize just how unlikely this is. For all the years he's been imagining what it might be like for Washington to touch him this way, there is a great difference between his unrealistic fantasies and the reality that Washington simply _wouldn't_.

The noise in his head makes it damn near impossible, but he manages to twist free and take a step back.

Hamilton sounds breathless and wrong when he asks, "Sir, all due respect, but what the _fuck_ are you doing?"

Washington just stares at him. Stares at Hamilton's mouth a beat too long before meeting his eyes, and even then he looks like Hamilton has just asked the stupidest question he's ever heard. Like he can't fathom why Hamilton has made him _stop_. Hamilton doesn't have a good answer to the wordless query. A foot of space separates them now, and he hates it—hates that Washington's hands aren't on him anymore. Why did Hamilton retreat? He did it thirty seconds ago, surely he should remember the reason.

He doesn't want this distance between them. His skin feels too tight, his whole body alive with fire. He _aches_. And when Washington reaches for him again, wordless and commanding, Hamilton breathes a sob of relief. 

Washington hikes him up onto the console with careless strength. The scanner tumbles from Alexander's hands, crashing to the floor so hard he might worry it's broken if he had a sliver of attention to spare. As it is he's too busy parting his legs and tugging Washington closer. He shivers when Washington's body slots into the space between his thighs like he belongs there—of course he belongs there—and Hamilton groans aloud when powerful arms close around him.

" _Alexander_."

The sound of his name sends a greedy shiver the length of Hamilton's spine.

He welcomes this kiss even more readily than the first. Washington's hands are restless, sliding from his hips to his thighs to the small of his back, cupping the side of his face, curling around his skull. Hamilton whines in protest when the kiss breaks, but Washington doesn't let go of him. Instead he presses frantic kisses along the line of Hamilton's throat, biting and nuzzling and sucking deliberate bruises into the skin.

" _Fuck_ ," Hamilton breathes, fumbling at Washington's uniform. It's a challenge coaxing Washington's jacket off when the captain is more focused on touching Hamilton than cooperating, but he finally manages the trick. Hamilton twists out of his own jacket, his own shirt—earning a groan of approval pressed directly into his bare shoulder—before shifting his attention to the hem of Washington's shirt and sliding both hands beneath the fabric.

He's wound too tight, needy and lost, and fuck—

 _Fuck_ , he's hard, and so is Washington. Washington's cock presses against him through too much fabric, and suddenly _all Hamilton wants_ is to feel his captain inside him.

"It's not enough." He gasps the words against Washington's jaw. "Sir, please, I need—"

" _Yes_ ," Washington growls.

There's a rush of vertigo as Washington drags him down from the console and puts him on the floor. Hamilton lands hard, but he doesn't care. _God_ does he ever _not care_ about whatever incidental bumps and bruises he might be collecting. Washington's hands are rough where they curl around his ribs, grasp at the bare skin of his flank, and then Washington is pushing him over, down onto his stomach. Hamilton lets it happen—he's _desperate_ for it to happen—and Washington kicks his legs apart, just far enough to settle between them and drape forward along his back.

There's a brush of fingers as Washington sweeps Hamilton's hair aside to bare his throat—he doesn't know when his queue came loose—then a sting of teeth that leaves him gasping. Washington's weight is heavy along his spine, clothed erection rubbing against his ass like a maddening tease. 

" _Please_." Hamilton twists impatiently beneath his captain. "Sir, _please fuck me_. I need— God, it's not enough, I need your cock inside me _now_."

Suddenly Washington's mouth is gone, and an instant later so is his weight along Hamilton's back. There's no time to protest before Washington's hands are dragging down his sides, halting at his hips. Hamilton shifts at the wordless command. He gets his knees beneath him as Washington drags his pants down, baring his ass and thighs. Hamilton's chest is still pressed to the smooth metal floor, elbows bent and forearms flat. He doesn't trust his arms to support him right now, which leaves his backside on blatant display. An invitation he hopes Washington can't resist.

There's a confusing moment where Washington isn't touching him at all. Hamilton can hear a rustle beside him, barely registers that Washington is digging in the supply pack. His head is spinning harder now, his breath coming shallow and fast. He's going to start begging again. He needs Washington to touch him, to fuck him, they can't stop now—

But before he recovers his voice Washington's weight is back, one arm braced on the floor near Hamilton's head.

"Sir?" Hamilton rasps, arching against him, pleading without any of his usual eloquence.

"Shhh." Washington presses hot kisses to the shell of his ear. "I've got you, Alexander." Then his weight is shifting, and two fingers slide past the tight clench of Hamilton's ass. They're slick with something, and Hamilton doesn't care what. He's too busy moaning to think about it, too distracted by the digits pressing deeper inside him, curling and twisting and making him keen.

He closes his eyes and wills his body to relax around the intrusion, but it's difficult. Difficult and so, _so_ good. It's been years since anyone has touched him like this—he hasn't fucked anyone since joining Washington's crew, refuses to think about that too hard even when he _does_ have the brainpower to spare—and he isn't used to the stretch of reluctant muscle. The burning ache of too much, the discomfort bordering on pain, the desperation for _more_ that comes before his body is truly ready.

 _God_ he wants more. Fingers aren't enough.

Hamilton knows Washington is as impatient to claim him as Hamilton is impatient to _be claimed_. So he presses back on Washington's fingers, groans as the movement forces them deeper. He rides the crest of sensation, crying aloud when the pads of those fingers brush just the right place inside him.

He sobs against the floor when Washington crooks both digits and does it again, igniting sparks of lightning behind Hamilton's eyes.

Before he can choke on his own pleas for more, those fingers withdraw and he hears the unmistakable rustle of fabric behind him. He forces his eyes open and twists to peer over his shoulders, desperate for a glimpse. He's just in time to see Washington take his own cock in hand and slick himself with whatever he's been using to work Hamilton open.

It won't be enough to ease the way. Just looking at him Hamilton knows this. It's been too long since he's taken anyone so big, and he's not ready.

But he doesn't care. He _aches_ for this. His blood is an inferno so fierce he can barely breathe. He's choking on how badly he needs Washington to hurry, make him feel it, that length stroking into him deep and perfect.

Then Washington is _there_ , braced once more over Hamilton's back as he guides his cock to Hamilton's tight entrance. The slick length forces its way inside—and it _does_ hurt—presses inexorably forward and leaves Hamilton too winded to beg for more. But he doesn't have to beg. Washington just keeps pressing deeper. Grasping hard at Hamilton's thighs to hold him in place as he drives his cock in to the hilt.

Hamilton's chest is heaving, his hands grasping ineffectually for purchase against the smooth floor, his mouth slack. He's panting with exertion.

When Washington bottoms out inside him, Hamilton breathes a wild sound, somewhere between a keen and a sob. There's the surreal nudge of Washington's balls flush against him, and then sturdy weight settling complete and warm along his spine. Hamilton gasps at the surprisingly soft kiss Washington presses just below his jaw.

The moment stretches into a yearning eternity. Perfectly still. Overwhelming. Taut. It is absolute torment.

Then Washington _moves_. From complete stillness to fucking Hamilton in earnest with no warning at all. Hamilton's body protests the rough use, but he doesn't goddamn care. He needs this. He needs Washington inside him, taking what he wants. Taking Hamilton like something rightfully _his_. And Hamilton cries out at the punch of feelings igniting his chest, the satisfaction of Washington's increasingly violent thrusts jarring him against the ground.

He's never felt so alive in his life.

" _Alexander_." Washington's voice rumbles so low and desperate that Hamilton's heart pulses even more fiercely. Washington's hands are unforgiving, his weight grounding along Hamilton's back, his hips thrusting hard and sharp. Their bodies move with the obscene, slick sounds of skin against skin.

Hamilton is a gasping mess, his hands clutching at nothing. Washington's breath is hot on his throat, his jaw, the back of his neck. There's a brush of lips, more like an afterthought than a kiss, and Washington speeds his pace.

They move together in a brutal rhythm—Washington using his body—Hamilton riding it out like a shockwave, thrilling at every thrust.

He startles when Washington reaches up to touch his hand and twine their fingers together. The captain's other hand is still curled at Hamilton's flank, palm warm, fingers splayed wide over his ribs. Holding on, bracing him for better leverage—holding him still so that Washington can keep right on fucking him, deep and relentless.

It's Hamilton who comes first, eyes squeezing shut as a loud cry fractures from his throat. Washington hasn't touched his cock once. That's something Hamilton might marvel at later, but for now he's riding the crest of orgasm. He barely registers the touch slipping from his side, trailing along his skin. A moment later he feels Washington's arm curl around his stomach, and Hamilton reaches down to grasp Washington's wrist with his free hand.

He breathes in shocky gasps as sensation overtakes him, body and soul.

He can't get enough air, can't steady himself as Washington's thrusts grow uneven. Then, sharp and sudden, Washington _stops_. As deep as he can go, Washington stills completely. He comes with a messy groan, mouth pressed to the side of Hamilton's neck.

The weak-flickering lights of the console and computer towers cut out so abruptly the room seems black for a moment. The surrounding cacophony fades in an instant. It takes a moment for Hamilton's blinking eyes to adjust to the dimness; it takes even longer for his head to stop spinning as quiet settles around them.

He's still holding perfectly still when reason floods back into his mind, sense returning with disorienting swiftness. Confusion and disbelief crowd into his head, undercut with a wave of wild horror. He doesn't move. Neither does Washington, and the moment stretches, impossible and awful.

It has to break eventually.

"What the _fuck_ ," Hamilton hisses, closing his eyes, struggling to quiet a rising roil of nausea. "What— What did we just do?"

Except he knows damn well what they just did. For fuck's sake, Washington's softening cock is still inside him, impossible to ignore. Hamilton's ass throbs painfully. He can already tell the next couple days will be damned uncomfortable unless he wants to admit the state of him to someone on the medical team.

Washington is breathing hard, and Hamilton can feel the rapid rise and fall of his captain's chest. The intimacy is unbearable. Washington's arm is still tight around his middle, Washington's other hand twined with Hamilton's against the floor. Neither one of them has managed to _move_ past their frozen shock.

"The machine." Washington's voice is uneven gravel. "It's dead now. It must have… Somehow…"

"Yeah," Hamilton says, and it sounds like a groan. He finally manages to open his eyes, shivering at the way Washington's arm tightens thoughtlessly around him. He swallows. "Sir, I need you to get off of me."

Washington physically startles at the demand—more like a plea with how quietly Hamilton speaks the words—and there's obvious care in how gently he tries to disengage. He moves slowly, sliding his cock from Hamilton's body. The care doesn't help much. Hamilton tries to keep quiet, but he can't quite silence the pained grunt that climbs up his throat.

He hates the soothing hand Washington strokes along his flank; he's grateful for the kind touch.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks. Hamilton hasn't turned to see his captain's face, but the voice is terrified. He's never heard Washington sound like this before.

"Fine," Hamilton lies. Because he's hurting, but it's not terrible. Physical pain has never bothered him like it should. He can deal with this; it won't slow him down for long.

But there's a vast gulf, between his physical hurts and his confused turmoil as he struggles to imagine the consequences of what just happened. He's craved Washington's hands on him for so long he honestly doesn't know when it started, but this is different. This isn't what he wanted. And it's damn sure not what Washington wanted. Hell, in all their years serving together, Washington's never given any indication of wanting _him_.

What if he can't even bear to look at Hamilton now?

Hamilton shoves those thoughts out of his head, because he can't afford to panic. Instead he flexes his hand as Washington disentangles their fingers. When Washington's weight disappears from on top of him, Hamilton presses himself upright—ignoring his body's twinge of protest—and rises onto his knees. His hands shake as he drags his pants up, trembling fingers making it difficult to manage the clasp.

At least the rest of his clothes are within reach. He feels fractionally better after pulling the shirt over his head and shrugging into his uniform jacket.

He startles when Washington's hand appears in his peripheral vision, offering to help him up.

Hamilton reluctantly accepts the offer, rising unsteadily to his feet. He stands beside Washington, noting that his captain's uniform has already been put to rights. There's no outward sign to give the man away. Looking at him, you wouldn't have any idea he just finished fucking his right hand man straight into next week. He doesn't even look winded. His expression is so blank it has to be deliberate.

Hamilton's never been able to master a poker face like that. His hair tie is missing, his expression wide open. He remembers the sting of teeth along his throat and wonders just how fucked-out he looks right now.

At least Washington _is looking_ at him. But now, here, on his feet, Hamilton can't figure out how to look away. His face is too honest, and Washington knows him too well. Fuck, how many closely guarded truths is Hamilton giving away simply because he can't stop staring?

In unintended unison, both men turn toward the darkened console. Hamilton hopes the hitch in his breath isn't audible. Even in the dimness he can't look at that console without thinking about Washington's strong hands lifting him off the floor. Washington's mouth exploring his skin. Hamilton feels numb, chilly with guilt and with the magnitude of what he's done.

Washington crouches, then rises with the flashlight in one hand and scanner in the other. The flashlight he activates and aims at the dead console; the scanner he hands over, and Hamilton is almost startled to find it still works. He drops his eyes to the readout screen.

"The console is completely drained," he reports, voice as normal as he can manage. "Even if we wanted to power it back up, I don't think we could." No tragedy there. Hamilton's curiosity about what this damn thing actually _does_ is no match for his desire to never experience it in action again. Bile creeps up his throat remembering the complete loss of control, the skewing of reality in his own head. The way Washington reached for him, and Alexander had found that perfectly plausible—hadn't questioned that Washington would touch him, and right in the middle of an away mission to boot.

Hamilton's mind is his greatest asset. To have his reason so badly distorted is a nightmare all its own.

Another beat of silence passes, unwieldy between them, and then Washington taps his combadge. "Washington to all away teams. Rendezvous at your nearest transport site and return to the ship immediately. We're finished here."

Hamilton wants to protest. They've explored barely a fraction of the city. How can they walk away _now_? But he's still facing down the lifeless console, and he knows Washington is right. At minimum they need to return to the ship and debrief all teams. Even if they decide to put this planet behind them, they've collected the command logs and plenty of data to analyze.

Another chirp pings through the small room, and Angelica's voice breaks into the quiet. "Schuyler to Washington. Sir, is everything all right?"

"I'll brief the senior staff when everyone's back onboard. Washington out."

Hamilton's voice is painfully tight in his throat. "What will you tell them?"

"Enough to explain the potential danger, and to decide if further exploration can be done safely," Washington says without looking at him. "But this— Us— They don't need to know." It's strangely gratifying the way Washington's voice goes strained by the end. Reassuring to know he's not unaffected.

"Thank you."

"I will need to include it in my mission report," Washington says more softly.

Hamilton closes his eyes for a moment. Swallows. "I know."

He hates that Washington is right. Even if they lock the full report down to special clearance, the idea of some admiral at Starfleet Command knowing what happened in this room… Hamilton doesn't relish the thought. But they don't get to pick and choose which information moves up the chain of command. They don't get to report only half of the facts.

He can feel Washington peering at him. Worried. Silent again. Waiting to see what else Hamilton will say. But Hamilton is out of words—a singular and unpleasant experience—and he closes the scanner with a click.

"Come on." Washington crouches again, scooping scattered items back into the supply pack and hoisting it onto his shoulder as he stands. "Let's get back to the ship."

Hamilton nods and falls into uncomfortable step behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Washington makes him report to sickbay.

To be fair, Washington orders _every_ member of the away team to sickbay. He's clearly unwilling to gamble on whether any of the other labs contained disastrous surprises.

Hamilton takes it personally anyway. He'd been planning to tough out the next couple days under his own stubborn willpower. Instead he's in perfect health, but _Peggy Schuyler_ of all people knows exactly what happened. The away team breakdowns aren't secret either, which means she knows who it happened _with_. Theoretically she's sworn to medical confidence, but. Well. The problem with having three sisters serving aboard the same starship is, confidentiality only goes so far.

There's nothing Hamilton can do about that now. There's no point borrowing trouble when he's got more immediate problems.

The away missions down to the planet continue, but Hamilton and Washington aren't among teams. Hamilton can't decide whether to seethe at the implication that he's not up to the challenge, or accept the reprieve with gratitude. He settles for a little of both. He's always been adaptable.

That night he dreams about Washington. To be fair, he dreams about Washington most nights; they are rarely innocent dreams. But tonight's dream is especially vivid. For all the fragmented imagery, there's something more substantial to the feel of Washington's hands and mouth. A sturdiness born of memory.

He wakes hard, but refuses to do a damn thing about it.

The first thing Hamilton sees on his private console is an official summons to Washington's office. It feels like a slap in the face. Hamilton begins _every_ shift by checking in with his captain; it's an unofficial routine, but one that's become regular as ritual. He has made it his business to see Washington's ship run flawlessly. That Washington thinks he needs to be _summoned_ is… probably reasonable, under the circumstances. But Hamilton still feels insulted by the formality. It tastes too much like censure.

The message says to report at the top of his shift, but Hamilton doesn't wait.

He hesitates in the corridor outside Washington's office. Straightens his uniform jacket. Touches his hair to check for flyaways. Draws a breath that does nothing at all to steady the rapid-fire thrumming of his pulse.

He's not scared to face Washington—they've _neither of them_ done anything wrong—but anxiety twists in his stomach anyway. There are a hundred ways this conversation might go. Too many potential outcomes, and most of them are unpleasant. Hamilton knows Washington better than most, but he has no idea what to expect when he walks through that door. This mess is beyond anything that's passed between them before. He has no frame of reference, no idea at all how Washington is reacting to the uninvited intimacy between them.

Hamilton squares his shoulders and takes a decisive step forward, striding into the office when the door slides automatically open.

He expects to find Washington seated at the impressive desk, but instead the captain is at the opposite end of the room—a grim silhouette standing before the viewport. Washington's gaze is turned out across the stationary starscape, but his focus is set obviously and painfully inward.

Washington turns at the sound of the door, attention jarring back from its wandering.

"Hamilton. You're early." There's no surprise in his voice.

"Usually," Hamilton agrees. He doesn't care how insubordinate he sounds. He's bracing for the worst—bracing for a fight—and he's never been good at deference when his hackles are up.

The door has swished firmly shut behind him, but Hamilton doesn't move any farther into the room. Washington stares at him, and Hamilton stares right back, standing his ground beneath the weighty scrutiny. He doesn't know what to say. The unfamiliar look on Washington's face is impossible to decipher.

He hates not knowing what his captain is thinking. After four years serving under him, of positioning himself as Washington's unofficial right hand, Hamilton rarely finds the man inscrutable. He doesn't like it one bit.

"I'm sure you know why I called you here," Washington says, breaking the silence before it can smother them both.

"You didn't need to _summon me_ ," Hamilton spits, defenses spiking at the steady authority in Washington's voice.

Washington's brows rise, his forehead wrinkling with a close approximation of bland disapproval. If it weren't for the hands fisted tightly at his sides, there would be no tell at all to show that Hamilton's presence has thrown him off his stride.

"Mind your tone," Washington says, though the rebuke is mild.

Hamilton suddenly can't take his eyes off of Washington's hands.

He bites back a dozen retorts. Banishes from his mind a bright flash of memory, Washington's hands firm on his hips, lifting him onto the edge of a flickering console. At least, he _tries_ to send the images from his mind. For a moment they distort, the flickering console becoming the sturdy desk in the corner, dim laboratory becoming this brightly lit office. But Hamilton can't afford such thoughts. He doesn't have the fortitude for wanting impossible things.

Washington is still watching him, patient and worried, and Hamilton closes his eyes. He keeps them shut for a long moment, swallows and ducks his head. When he opens them again, he keeps his gaze trained on the floor. Keeps his voice as calm and blank as he can when he belatedly answers the question.

"Yes. I know why you called me here." A pause, another tight swallow. His throat has gone dry, but Washington still isn't speaking, so Hamilton grudgingly continues, "If it's all the same, sir, I'd rather you be the one to say it."

"What is it you think needs saying, Lieutenant?" The stiff formality is clearly deliberate. Washington is putting him at a distance, framing this conversation like something abstract and reasonable, when it is neither of those things.

"Don't do that." Hamilton hates the desperation in his own voice. He is accustomed to helping Washington find the right words for difficult situations—it's part of what makes him invaluable—but he can't bear to play his part here, now, about _this_. And it's not fair of Washington to ask.

The silence stretches too long and Hamilton finally raises his eyes. He expects another snapshot of calm and control.

Instead he finds Washington looking stricken and guilty and raw. Somehow, the glimpse doesn't make him feel any better.

It takes Washington a moment to clear his expression. A moment more to actually open his mouth and speak. "I'm sorry. I never intended—"

"I know that, sir." Hamilton's stomach is already knotting up. He doesn't need to hear Washington say _out loud_ that he doesn't want—has _never wanted_ Hamilton—when his captain has spent years making that fact perfectly clear. Not in words, of course. They've never once spoken of this. But Washington has never needed words the way Hamilton does.

Washington's brow furrows at the interruption. "Son, I'm trying to—"

" _Don't_." Hamilton's vehemence shocks them both, the word ringing through the office like a gunshot. Washington is looking at him hard, and Hamilton fights the urge to shrink away to nothing. There's wounded surprise in Washington's expression, poorly concealed. His dark eyes are wide.

Hamilton clenches his jaw and forces the burst of emotion back under his frayed control. He's never liked being called 'son'—loathes being reminded of the father he barely knew—but he hates it most when it comes from Washington. Paternal affection is the last thing he wants from his captain.

He can't explain all of this now. He's never protested the form of address before, and there is no universe in which Hamilton would willingly lay these truths at Washington's feet.

But Washington is peering at him. Patient and worried. Watchful. And Hamilton knows he has to say _something_. So he draws a slow breath and drops his gaze to the floor once again.

He sounds very nearly calm when he says, "Sir. I would prefer you not call me that." _Ever again_ , echoes unspoken at the end of the request.

"Of course," Washington says, soft and far too gentle. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it bothered you." There's an undercurrent of question in the apology. Washington wondering if this is new—if it's because of what happened between them—or if Hamilton has always felt this way.

Even if the question were spoken aloud, Hamilton wouldn't answer. He feels far too exposed as it is. Less than twenty-four hours ago he was on an alien planet begging his captain to fuck him. Washington won't assume anything—if he didn't recognize Hamilton's feelings before, he certainly won't ask if Hamilton still wants him now—but it's still _too much_.

Washington takes a deliberate step away from the window. Not directly towards Hamilton, but nearer the center of the room. Hamilton keeps his attention firmly on the floor.

"We need to decide how to move forward from here," Washington says.

Hamilton's shoulders stiffen, but he bites his tongue. He can't imagine where they go from here. He can't just _unknow_ all the intimate things he learned on the planet below. And he's not good enough at self-deception to believe Washington doesn't remember what he sounds like when he comes.

He can't find his voice to speak. He can't _move_. The air around him feels sharp and cold, and Hamilton is ready to shatter.

"I think… under the circumstances…" Washington turns toward his desk and clasps his hands behind his back. "There are any number of departments you might choose between… Or I could arrange a transfer to a different ship, if a change in duties here isn't enough distance from my authority."

"Distance from— Sir, what the hell are you talking about?" _Now_ he is looking at Washington. Staring at the broad shoulders and stiff spine, the back of Washington's head.

"I can't ask you to remain as we were. We should work less closely together for the foreseeable future."

"No we should _fucking not_ ," Hamilton growls, rejecting the notion with visceral instinct. He storms farther into the room. Not close enough to touch—he's not _that_ stupid—but close enough that surely Washington can feel the panic and denial radiating from him. This is his worst case scenario. Washington couldn't be more clear about how horrified he is, and now he is threatening to send Hamilton away.

" _Language_ , Lieutenant," Washington chides, but the tense line of his shoulders loosens the barest fraction. In resignation, maybe. Washington, of all people, knows just how stubborn Hamilton can be.

He won't allow Washington to arrange a transfer to another ship in the fleet. He _goddamn won't_.

"You don't have to do this." Hamilton sounds small and lost, and he shores his voice up stronger. "We're fine. _I'm fine_. And I'm sorry about what happened. I'm sorry I screwed up. But I swear, I won't let you down again."

Washington's stance shifts, his whole body pivoting so that he can meet Hamilton's eyes. Hamilton feels caught-out, but he stands at rigid attention. Jaw tight, arms at his sides, glare sharp as glass.

"You haven't let me down," Washington says firmly. "If anything, the failure was mine. But that's not the point."

No, Hamilton silently concedes. The point _isn't_ who's at fault. It doesn't matter who garners the largest portion of blame. The point is that Washington can barely look at him, and Hamilton doesn't know how to regain the ground he's lost.

"Then what do we do?" he asks, high and plaintive. "Sir, please, I don't want to leave the ship. I _don't want_ to join another department." He serves under _Washington_ , damn it. He's earned his place here—he won't be shunted off to beta shift or astrometrics. This is where he belongs.

Washington visibly deflates, looking suddenly exhausted and worn thin. "Very well. We'll leave the matter for now. Dismissed, Lieutenant."

It's a reprieve, but somehow it doesn't feel like one.

Hamilton nods and turns on his heel, trying not to move too quickly as he leaves Washington's office. He's due on the bridge. Everything else will simply have to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

An entire week passes, and nothing improves. If anything, the unease between them twists tighter, leaving Hamilton with the frustrating sensation of being wrong in his own skin.

Washington doesn't reassign him, but he goes to unnecessary lengths to keep Hamilton at a distance. Tasks him with assisting departments he's barely set foot in before. Configures the duty rosters so that their bridge shifts rarely overlap. Makes a point of keeping their early morning check-ins short and formal.

It's maddening, and Hamilton can't do a damn thing about it. Washington is nearly as stubborn as him. Moreover, he's the captain. If he doesn't want Hamilton around, it's well within his power to arrange things his way—a fact he demonstrates over and over.

The extra distance doesn't settle Hamilton. If anything, it distracts him all the worse. He has _always_ spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about Washington, but it's different now. Worry and anxiety tangle inextricably with the hum of _want_ , constant in his blood, and the result is messy and conflicted. Impossible to ignore.

It's only a matter of time before someone notices. The whole ship has figured out that _something_ is wrong—the modified duty rosters alone would make it obvious—but by the end of the week it's finally too much. They've put the planet behind them, gathered as much information as possible and reported everything up the chain of command. They'll be at least four days in transit to their next destination. And Hamilton can barely sit still.

"Got any plans tonight?" Angelica asks him. They exit the bridge together, making way for gamma shift, and there are murmurs of _Goodnight, Commander Schuyler_ from the crewmen they pass. 

The turbolift doors close quietly behind them.

Hamilton has no plans besides sulking in his quarters, if he's going to be honest. "Not really."

"Great. My place. Dinner. Right now." Angelica smiles a particularly sharp-edged smile, and announces, "Deck six." The computer beeps and the lift hums to life, light panels flashing as they begin to descend.

Hamilton thinks about protesting. He's terrible company right now, and he knows it. Angelica is a friend—maybe the closest he's got aboard ship—but socializing tonight holds about as much appeal as a survival-training session. His mood is a minefield of flammable secrets. He can only imagine how awkward it will be, trying to have a normal conversation around all the biggest distractions in his arsenal.

But Angelica is watching him a little too closely, which means this isn't really a social call. She's worried. The problem with Angelica is, she knows him too well. Well enough to recognize that if she simply asks him what's wrong, he'll lie. Hamilton doesn't lie often, or well, but he _will_ lie about this. It's no one else's business.

Which means she plans to deploy alternate tactics. Hamilton is exhausted just thinking about it. But if he turns her down, she'll find some other way to come at him. His best option is to join her for dinner and pretend everything is fine. He doesn't have to convince her things are _great_. Just that they're okay. That _he's_ okay. That whatever she thinks is bothering him, it's not a big deal.

He can do this.

"Dinner sounds great," he says, even though he's already been quiet too long.

"Good."

Her plan, it turns out, is not only dinner in her quarters—though the French onion soup she replicates is a marvel—but a full bottle of real tequila. _Good_ tequila. Which she pours generously for both of them as the hour grows late.

"Where did you even get this stuff?" Hamilton stares down at his drink—full again—wrapping both his hands around the glass. Of the last twelve ports they visited, none were Human bases. Hamilton hasn't seen an Earth merchant in almost a year. Or maybe it's been longer. It's difficult to track the true passage of time aboard a starship in deep space.

"Been saving it for a special occasion." Angelica raises her glass in the air, and Hamilton hesitates only a moment before following suit, clinking his own drink against it with a light _tnk_. His senses are swimming, thick and blurry, and his rapid-fire mind feels sluggish. Angelica still looks sharp and sober, even though she's had plenty, too. _That's_ not goddamn fair. 

Hamilton sets his tequila down without drinking. "How is this a special occasion?"

"Sorry, did I say 'occasion'?" Affection flashes in Angelica's eyes. "I meant 'interrogation'."

Hamilton groans and drops his head forward on the table, the impact sloshing a little of the tequila from his glass. He saw this coming, but somehow he still feels like he's been caught flat-footed. Off his guard. Must be the tequila. No wonder she plied him with good stuff.

"So." Angelica doesn't wait for him to sit back up. "You and Washington on that planet."

There's too much certainty in her voice. Not just the worry of seeing them flounder for a week, but something else. Something that says she has more than theories and hypotheticals in her arsenal. She knows exactly what happened. She just wants him to say it.

"Fucking _Peggy_ ," Hamilton growls without raising his head. "What did she tell you?"

"Peggy didn't tell me shit," Angelica says. Hamilton knows her too well _not_ to recognize the lie, but he lets it pass, doesn't argue when she continues, "But I read the redacted mission reports. Washington _never_ redacts his reports. And I know you and Washington better than most people do. I'm not an idiot."

Hamilton grunts and pushes himself upright. Glares silently for several seconds.

Angelica arches one perfect, delicate eyebrow. "Talk."

Hamilton forces himself not to look away. "Fine. We fucked. And now everything is an awkward mess, and Washington is determined to pretend it never happened." Which would be fine if either one of them were good at pretending, but. They're not. They're terrible at this, Washington even worse than Hamilton, and nothing is the same.

The look Angelica gives him is somehow confounded and pitying and a little judgmental, all at once.

It makes Hamilton seethe. "What?"

"Alexander, think about it. Washington is the captain of this ship. And on his last away mission he had sex with a subordinate half his age. What do you _expect_ him to do now? Announce it to the whole crew?"

"Of course not," Hamilton sulks, irritated at the obvious exasperation in her tone. Honestly, he'd be happy to pretend nothing happened, but he keeps catching worried looks and abrupt silences from his captain. All the ease between them has vanished; _nothing is the same_. Even if Hamilton weren't distracted by his feelings for his C.O., he would be frustrated at this new strain between them.

"Then what?" Angelica presses more carefully.

Hamilton scowls, because the alcohol is making it difficult to not blurt secrets he's gone to great lengths to protect. John Laurens is the only person who knows how Hamilton feels about Washington, and John _isn't here_. Hamilton can't blame him for accepting a position at Starfleet Academy, but he's sure as hell not going to tell anyone else. Damn it, he doesn't care how worried she is, he's not going to admit to _Angelica Schuyler_ —second in command and Hamilton's immediate superior—that all he wants is an invitation to Washington's bed.

"Alexander." She nudges his wrist with the hand holding her drink. There's unaccustomed gentleness in her voice. Fuck, he must really have her worried.

Hamilton sighs and slouches in his seat, ignoring the way his head spins. "I just wish… Does he have to make it so obvious he's disgusted by what happened?"

The days since the incident have driven the point painfully home. Clearly Washington doesn't want him—Hamilton had no delusions on that score—but he seems determined to distance himself despite Hamilton's protests. Keeping him at arm's length, sending him on errands all over the ship, assigning him to assist other officers at every opportunity. Washington has made no attempt at subtlety, and Hamilton resents being treated this way.

It stings. Washington doesn't want him: fine. That's not new information. But there's such an air of censure in his demeanor since the away mission. Wordless rebuke in every assignment that sends Hamilton to some far corner of the ship. And damn it, Hamilton didn't ask for this either.

Across the small table, Angelica has gone uncharacteristically—suspiciously—silent. Her gaze has fallen to her glass. There's something downright evasive in her posture.

Hamilton has never seen Angelica try to be evasive before.

" _What_?" he demands, sharper than he intends.

"He's not disgusted."

"The hell he's not." Hamilton's stomach turns over unhappily. "He won't even _look_ at me."

"And you can't think of a single other reason that might be?"

"Like what?"

Again she avoids his eyes, but when she speaks she sounds perfectly reasonable. "Guilt, maybe?" She pauses, a sliver of hesitation. "He said he hurt you."

Hamilton's eyes widen, and he straightens in his chair, surprise hitting him like a kick to the spine. "He _talked to you_? About what happened?"

"Some."

Hamilton doesn't know why the idea makes him so unhappy. It's hypocritical. He's confessed plenty to Angelica over the course of this conversation. But the idea of Washington talking to someone else about what happened, when he hasn't looked Hamilton in the eye for _days_ … It hurts. Hamilton hunkers down in his chair as the knowledge settles in.

He clutches tighter at the glass in his hand, and raises it to his lips. The tequila barely burns going down, but it grounds him anyway. He stops after a healthy swallow and sets the drink back down.

"It wasn't like that," he says. "You make it sound like… like I tried to fight him. Like I didn't _want_ it." His skin crawls saying all this out loud. He feels naked, and he doesn't like it one bit.

"You _didn't_ want it," Angelica points out, and Hamilton wishes he weren't quite so drunk. He's having a hard time forming his arguments, and he hates feeling inarticulate.

"Neither did he," he says at last. "But it wasn't— That machine got in both our heads. And yeah, he fucked me, but he didn't— He didn't _rape me_ , okay?" Bile rises in the back of his throat at the words—at the garbled contradiction of everything he's just said. But that's what Angelica's far too cautious, reasonable tone is really saying, and there's no universe in which Hamilton is going to lay that kind of blame at his captain's feet. "Everything he did, I begged him for."

Admitting it out loud makes his insides burn.

"You were in no condition to consent to any of it."

" _Neither was he_!" Hamilton snaps, suddenly vicious. He's not sure if the force of his anger comes from the vulnerable defensiveness in his chest, or from indignation on Washington's behalf. Angelica is right—he was in no condition to consent—and the fact that he begged Washington to fuck him doesn't matter. Doesn't make him a willing participant. Doesn't make what happened anything less than sexual assault. But if _he_ wasn't willing, Washington sure as hell wasn't, either. "You weren't there. You don't get to accuse him of this shit."

"Woah, easy." Angelica holds up a placating hand, her brow knitting heavily. "I'm not accusing the captain of _anything_. I'm just worried about _you_ , okay? Well. Honestly, I'm worried about both of you. If I had the authority to order you both to counseling I would. But I don't. So I'm just… trying to understand what happened. I want to help."

Hamilton resists the urge to point out that she's _not_ helping. That this is none of her business. That she doesn't get to corner him with good tequila and start talking shit about how Washington _hurt him_. Hamilton was there. He goddamn knows what happened.

"I'm fine," he grits through clenched teeth.

Fault or not, he's humiliated and ashamed over the way he behaved on that planet. He's in agony at the knowledge that Washington saw him like that, lost and wanton and wrecked. And he feels guilty as hell. Because yeah, he wasn't in his right mind—he didn't want Washington on some floor, some long dead planet, both of them too fucked up to realize what they were doing—but he did want Washington. Every growl, every touch, every sensation of Washington on top of him, inside him… God Hamilton has wanted those things. He's spent a hundred fantasies imagining his captain claiming him, rough and frantic and forceful. Which leaves him unable to shake the irrational but stubborn sense of having taken advantage.

He begged Washington to fuck him. And Washington gave him _exactly_ what he was asking for. But Washington has never once looked at Hamilton with anything like interest in his eyes.

Angelica is watching him far too kindly, and Hamilton clenches his jaw. He hates the protectiveness in her silence. He hates how much it makes him want to confess his secrets.

"What if it was my fault?" he asks miserably

"How can it possibly be your fault?"

_Maybe the machine knew I wanted him_ , Hamilton thinks. _Maybe my brainwaves triggered something in that room. Maybe I'm the reason everything went wrong._

They still don't know what the machine was originally intended to do. They never _will_ know. The doubt burns like a hot coal in his gut.

He can't admit all this to Angelica, so instead he says, "I should have avoided that room. I had the scans _in my hand_ , and I didn't know what they meant. We should never have gone in."

"We're explorers. Can't explore without taking risks."

She surely doesn't mean to sound so patronizing, and Hamilton smoothes back his rising hackles. He takes a drink to keep himself from saying something biting and unkind. When he sets down his glass, he finds Angelica watching him far too closely.

"What?" He sounds less defensive now than tired.

"You should talk to Washington about all this."

"Like hell," Hamilton answers, instantly but without heat. He _did_ talk to Washington. The conversation accomplished nothing but a guilt-driven stomachache and a bad taste in his mouth. He's not keen to repeat the experiment.

"I'm serious," Angelica pushes, and it's obvious just how serious she is. Hamilton's never seen her look so earnest. It makes his chest tighten and his mind race.

"What aren't you telling me?" He is suddenly and entirely sure she's keeping something from him—something important—and he doesn't like it.

But instead of giving him a straight answer, Angelica drains the last of her drink and rises to her feet. She clasps Hamilton's shoulder tightly.

"Talk to him," she repeats. "Trust me. It's the only way either one of you will get past this."

Hamilton just scowls and shrugs her hand off his shoulder, rising less steadily to his own feet. He leaves without finishing his drink or saying goodnight.


	4. Chapter 4

Even if he wanted to follow Angelica's advice, he wouldn't know how. Washington keeps him at arm's length. He refuses to let Hamilton close even when they're both on duty, surrounded by crew members who have no idea what's gone wrong between the captain and his unofficial right-hand man. 

There's no way he'll let Hamilton near him off-duty. The idea of Washington allowing Hamilton _into his quarters_ for a private conversation is laughably implausible.

Angelica can lecture all she wants about _talking_ ; Hamilton can't force Washington to listen.

Despite the unsolvable personal disaster onboard, the ship's course continues like always. Explorations into unfamiliar space, frequently interrupted by Starfleet orders. The occasional starbase for repairs, colony worlds for relief efforts, even an escort run that goes not at all smoothly. Unpredictable as ever.

When Starfleet Command orders Washington to stand as arbiter for a warring planet ready to make peace, Hamilton honestly wants to ask if they've lost their minds. Not that he doubts the captain's ability to arbitrate between prickly government powers—Washington is certainly level-headed enough for the job—but this bullshit is _way_ above their pay grade. The Federation _has_ diplomats. Negotiators. People whose entire job is to step up when peace talks call for a neutral third party. For Command to foist the responsibility off on a starship captain makes Hamilton wonder just how ugly a situation they're walking into.

He's shocked when the captain recruits him— _only him_ —to accompany Washington planet-side. After weeks of shunting Hamilton off to other departments, Washington actually wants him around. It seems too good to be true.

Then he hands Hamilton a collection of intelligence files—reams upon reams of data collected on a single P.A.D.D.—and says, "This is the history of the conflict, and detailed guides to the cultures of the two main contenders. I need you to know this information backwards and forwards so you can assist me at the negotiating table." Quick as that Hamilton understands, this isn't anything like an olive branch. This isn't an effort to resume their normal patterns. This is Washington backed into a corner, with no choice but to bring him in. They will reach their destination in four days, and there is literally no one else onboard who can learn this volume of information in time.

"Yes, sir." Hamilton buries any hint of frustration beneath his best veneer of professionalism. "I won't let you down."

He learns the information. He memorizes and organizes. Foregoes sleep two nights running until Angelica catches on and tells him to knock that shit off. It's a direct order, which means no sneaking to Peggy in sickbay and begging for chemical help to keep him on his feet. He makes it through every scrap of data—barely—and feels rocky and exhausted by the time the ship takes its position in orbit.

He _does_ ask Peggy for a boost now that they're here. She gives him what he needs, in exchange for a promise that he'll _actually sleep_ during his downtime.

He believes her entirely when she says, "I'm serious, Alexander. If I find out you didn't keep your end of the deal, I will make you regret your entire life."

The negotiations are exhausting. Hamilton isn't expected to talk—he is _expressly forbidden_ from talking, a fact that is both freeing and maddening—but he still finds his mental faculties taxed at every turn. Washington has done his homework too, but he still relies on Hamilton for guidance and minutia. Every few minutes there's something else, some detail of history or culture that Hamilton has to find and nudge into Washington's line of sight on the table, relevant to calming frayed tempers and keeping a fraught argument on something like a productive track.

The negotiation lasts for days. And days. And fucking _days_. A snail's pace of progress that feels like it will never end.

Hamilton's job is more difficult than it needs to be, for the simple and infuriating reason that Washington won't look at him. Every point Hamilton wants to make, he has to put in writing and slide across the table, because—not allowed to talk—he has no other way to get Washington's attention. 

Mostly that's fine. It's his purpose here, and the notes he passes are so steady and regular it doesn't matter that they aren't discreet.

But it's also not fine at all. The constant dismissal is enough to ignite low-simmering anger in Hamilton's chest, a frustration with no outlet. It's awkward and unprofessional and, damn it, it's unacceptable. A Starfleet captain should behave better. But Hamilton can't very well chastise his own commanding officer for something as stupid as refusing to look at him. And he certainly can't do it in a tense room of alien diplomats, all of whom are making a genuine effort to find peace before they wipe themselves off the face of their own planet. Despite evidence to the contrary, Hamilton is capable of exercising discretion.

So he bites his tongue and does his damn job. Keeps his irritation silent and focuses on being exactly what Washington needs. He _will not_ let his captain down now.

It's not Hamilton's fault when things almost go to shit.

Technically it's not Washington's fault, either.

They're so close—the parties have a _finished treaty_ in front of them—a full month after these endless negotiations started. All that's missing is a closing paragraph. A statement of aspirations and intentions, something poetic in the language of both parties. Hamilton doesn't speak either language—even he can't learn two languages in four days—but he _has_ studied them. And when a particularly flowery sentence in one language is doomed to conjure a vulgar imputation in the other, his spine straightens with a tingle of apprehension.

He tries to catch Washington's eye. When that fails, he steps on his captain's foot beneath the table—but it's too late. The universal translators in their combadges have done instantaneous damage. Suddenly there's shouting, a scraping of chair legs across the floor, tempers flaring all around the table. A quick glance at his captain's profile tells Hamilton all he needs to know: Washington has no idea what's gone wrong.

Of course he doesn't. He heard the sentence in English. How can he possibly recognize that this barely comprehensible allusion—a promise about the tides of the ocean of all things—translates to a sexually aggressive proposition in a language he doesn't even know?

The shouting grows louder, and there's _no time_. This can't be the moment peace talks fall apart. Not when these parties have already done the impossible and negotiated a complete and workable treaty.

Hamilton rises in a rush, pitching his voice to be heard through the cacophony. " _Everyone, please_."

Sudden and complete silence rings through the room. Everyone freezes and gawps at him. Not because of his raised voice, Hamilton suspects, but because these are the first words they've ever heard him speak. He can feel Washington staring, can all too easily imagine the disapproval on his captain's face. Hamilton ignores him and focuses on the rest of the room.

"Ambassador." Hamilton turns to the chief diplomat for the offended party. "If you'll bear with me a moment, I can explain."

He is delicate for once in his life. It's surreal to explain something so prickly—such a specific slip of linguistic awkwardness—between two parties who have shared a planet for centuries. Yes, they've been at war almost the entire time, but the idea that they've learned so little about each other… that they could have come to this negotiating table so vulnerable to misunderstanding…

No wonder they requested an arbiter from the Federation.

Even after Hamilton's explanation, tempers are obviously strained.

"Perhaps a brief recess?" he suggests, rather than ceding control of the room back to Washington. The immediate relief on all faces reassures him it's the right choice.

"Hamilton," Washington murmurs amid the less violent sound of chair legs scuffing the stone floor, "a word in private?"

Hamilton's hackles are still up, and he bristles at the undercurrent of censure in the request. His mood isn't at all helped by the way Washington is staring at the table when he stands. But Hamilton bites his tongue—he's not going to raise a fuss in front of the diplomats and staff who haven't finished clearing the room—and nods.

Both Hamilton and Washington have grown familiar with the high hallways and meandering corridors of the palace that's been serving as a summit site. It doesn't take them long to find an empty room—a small library, or maybe it's an office, private and spartan. Skinny shelves line three walls, and on the fourth a tall window lets in generous sunlight.

The door is heavy, and it closes behind them with a too-loud thud.

Washington moves straight for the window without sparing Hamilton so much as a glance. His voice is a rumble of stern rebuke. "Were the theatrics really necessary, Lieutenant?" His gaze holds steadily out the window, across a patchwork horizon of damaged architecture and newer construction.

Hamilton's ire surges nova-bright. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Washington doesn't turn, but even in profile there's no mistaking the way his eyebrows shoot up, wrinkling his forehead. From across the room Hamilton perceives the unspoken _when have you ever held back on my account_.

But all Washington says out loud is, "Of course."

Hamilton draws a slow breath. It does nothing to calm him down. "With all due respect, sir. It would be a whole lot easier to _do my job_ if you were willing to make eye contact with me." God, even now Washington's attention is focused firmly out through the window. He stands straighter at Hamilton's tone, turns to meet his eyes, but it's too little, too late.

Washington is holding impossibly still.

Hamilton wants to rail against that stillness. His temper seethes beneath his skin, igniting restless energy with nowhere to go. God, he's angry. It's not a new feeling. It's been building for months, and Hamilton has had _enough_.

"Lieutenant—" Washington's placating tone does nothing to soothe the rising inferno.

"No," Hamilton interjects. He doesn't care _what_ Washington is about to say if he's going to say it in that tone. "You fucked up in there. I tried to warn you. It could have been so much worse, and it might not have happened at all if you weren't—" He cuts himself short, painfully aware that he's almost shouting, a storm front of feelings and frustration leaking through his words. The misunderstanding _wasn't_ Washington's fault—no one could have prevented it—but that's not the point.

"If I weren't what, Hamilton?"

The question is posed so quietly. It makes him want to scream.

"You're doing this on purpose," Hamilton snaps, voice rising in defiance of his captain's maddening composure.

Washington's eyes cut away, his gaze darting back toward the window. He still sounds infuriatingly normal when he says, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me!" Hamilton _is_ shouting now, and he's jarred to the core by the raw feeling on display. There's too much hurt beneath the words—too much honesty—but he can't rein himself in now. He storms forward, crowding close at Washington's side, and like an oncoming train wreck he hears himself demand, "How can you be so _goddamn calm_? What is wrong with you? Fucking _say something_."

Washington's spine visibly straightens, his shoulders going stiff, and when he pivots on his heel there's a flash of real feeling behind his eyes. Bright and sharp and terrifying, a glimpse imperfectly hidden in an instant.

Washington is standing so close, staring him down, and Hamilton can't help it. He takes a single step back. Not because he's scared of Washington—he doubts he could ever be scared of his captain—but because if he stays put he's liable to do something stupid. Like sway into Washington's space. Like press close, uninvited and unwanted. Like _kiss him_ , when Washington could not be more clear that intimacy with Hamilton is the last thing he wants.

Washington's expression tightens at Hamilton's retreat, and then the blankness returns in full force.

Washington draws a steady breath. "I'm calm because I _have to be_. For God's sake, Hamilton, I'm your commanding officer. Do you think I want to see you hurting and know it's my fault?"

And just like that, Hamilton's rage dissolves. The sudden absence leaves him winded and shaken. Guilty, too. God, of course Washington isn't really calm. He's just as fucked up as Hamilton, just as anxious and confused and riled—why else would he be keeping Hamilton at such a determined distance?

"You weren't supposed to reassign me." Hamilton's tantrum has faded, but in its wake he sounds petulant and lost. He hates this, hates feeling so wrong and helpless. Hates not knowing how to move forward.

"I haven't reassigned you," Washington protests.

"Haven't you?" Hamilton retorts with all the quiet venom he can muster.

"You're here, aren't you?"

"Only because you had no other choice." Hamilton's anger is banked, but frustration still seethes through him. He has no right to feel betrayed. Somehow he feels it anyway. "You're doing this on purpose. You said you _wouldn't reassign me_ , but we haven't spent a single normal shift together since that goddamn planet."

"Alexander—" 

The sound of his own name isn't enough to slow Hamilton down now. "You won't even look at me."

Even now, standing face to face, Washington's gaze has drifted just far enough to the right that he's no longer meeting Hamilton's eyes. Damn it, Hamilton is sick of being treated this way. They're supposed to be a team. Washington is supposed to rely on him—has _always_ relied on him—and Hamilton hates the way everything has distorted between them. He's given everything for his ship, for his captain. Washington doesn't get to shut him out now.

Washington at least has the good grace to flinch at the accusation. "What would you have me do?" He forces himself to meet Hamilton's eyes; Hamilton's heart _hurts_ at how obvious it is that Washington finds it difficult to do.

He doesn't mean to ask the question. "Was it really so awful?" 

He wants to take it back immediately, because fuck, he sounds plaintive. Too honest, too open and vulnerable, too wounded. Too much. But he can't retract the question now. Washington is staring at him with wide, horrified eyes, and Hamilton can't fucking _breathe_.

"How can you ask me that, after what I did to you?" The calm has shattered from Washington's face, leaving a hurricane of guilt in its wake. "For God's sake, I assaulted you. I _raped you_ , Alexander. How am I supposed to make that right?"

Hamilton flinches back a step at the blunt words—or maybe it's the vehemence that catches him off guard. Fuck. Angelica was right. And that's—

It's not—

That's not fucking _fair_. Washington didn't cause this rift between them. He isn't to blame for what happened. He didn't do anything _wrong_. Washington's hands may have held him down, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't put Washington at fault for events completely beyond his control.

Hamilton shores himself up the best he can, but he still sounds small when he says, "I begged you to fuck me."

"You also tried to stop me."

Hamilton blinks. "When did I—" But he pulls up short, remembering a jagged sliver of detail. He _did_ try to stop them, one fleeting time after they first entered the room. When he still had just enough of his mind left to ask what the hell they were doing, before Washington reached for him again and the tidal wave dragged him under.

Washington looks grim and miserable. "I hurt you."

They're the echo of Angelica's words, but they're so much worse to hear coming directly out of Washington's mouth.

Hamilton swallows hard and decides to take a terrifying gamble. He feels absolutely naked when he admits, "Rough sex doesn't really bother me, sir." God, it's such an understatement. But he can't tell his captain just how much he likes being held down. He can't confess all the times he's jerked off fantasizing about letting Washington make a complete mess of him. "Look, I know this is too much information, but. Let's just say I'm into that sometimes."

Most of the time. Damn near all the time. Hamilton's always been wired for _feeling_ ; he can't help that he likes to feel things harder than most people are comfortable with.

Washington looks more than a little winded at the revelation. It takes him a moment to shake it off.

"It doesn't matter what kind of sex you prefer, Lieutenant. The point is, you did not intend on having it with _me_."

"God _damn_ it, sir, that's not—" Hamilton cuts himself off. He breathes in slowly and struggles for a calm he doesn't feel. "Fine. You touched me first. You touched me _twice_. It _doesn't matter_. That machine fucked us up. It got in our heads and turned everything upside down. You weren't in your right mind, any more than I was."

Washington still looks grim and miserable in the face of Hamilton's absolution, and several uncomfortable seconds pass before he says, "Maybe not. But it _was_ my fault."

" _How?_ " Hamilton stares in wild incomprehension. "How the _fuck_ is it your fault?" 

Hamilton was the one who insisted they follow the signal on his scanner. Hamilton was the one who demanded they investigate the room. Hamilton was the one who said it should be safe.

But he can see the clear hesitation on Washington's face. The sharp swallow, the averted eyes. An eternity passes before Washington finally answers.

"We'll never know what the machine was intended to do," Washington says, "or why it affected us the way it did. But there _are_ surmises we can make, based on the data we do possess. Suppose the equipment wasn't just projecting, but scanning. And suppose one of us went into that room wanting things he shouldn't."

Hamilton's heart stutters in his chest, and a chill snakes through him. For a painful instant he can't breathe, can't think, can't hear anything but empty static in his ears. Washington knows. Fuck, he _knows_. No wonder he's been keeping Hamilton as far away from him as possible. No wonder he can't meet Hamilton's eyes.

Except…

Except.

Except Washington has spoken the words like a confession, not an accusation. There's no anger in the tired slouch of his shoulders. Impossible. But Hamilton's lungs draw air again, as he realizes this is something else.

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry, Hamilton. I truly am. I never intended for you to learn the truth, and certainly not like this."

" _What truth_?" Hamilton pleads. He surges forward without meaning to, plants himself once more at Washington's side as desperation twists in his gut.

Washington's jaw clenches. "That I want… inappropriate things. From you." He sounds stiff and strained, painfully professional as he confesses a truth Hamilton wants more than anything in the universe.

Washington is _still_ avoiding his eyes, staring through the window with unflinching resolve. Leaving Hamilton no choice but to be headstrong and stupid. To make a decision he can't take back. To illuminate the path for both of them.

Hamilton shuts down the voice of doubt in his head and slips forward, wedging himself between his captain and the window, so close they're nearly touching. Chest to chest. Dark eyes widen with surprise, but Hamilton moves quickly, stretching up and pressing his mouth to Washington's.

There's a moment of startled stillness. Hamilton's eyes are closed, but he can easily imagine the disbelief on Washington's face. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. There's an ember of longing in his chest, and he burns to see this through.

But he can't make Washington kiss him back simply by willing it to happen. He can't do anything but wait. And when Washington remains frozen, Hamilton's heart flops with disappointment.

All he can do is wait, but he can't wait forever.

He retreats from the kiss, though he doesn't have enough space to withdraw. The glass of the window is at his back, the frame jutting against his ass. When he opens his eyes, he's staring at Washington's chest, the crisp gray fabric of his uniform, and he can't figure out how to look anywhere else. His face burns hot with disappointed shame.

"Sir," he starts, not sure how to apologize for wanting so desperately.

Washington's fingers curl beneath his chin, startling him to silence, and Hamilton allows the touch to guide his head back. The look he finds on his captain's face is too many things at once, an unreadable jumble of feelings. Hamilton's throat is tight, his pulse a pounding chaos in his own ears. There's a faint spark of hope somewhere behind his ribs, and it will hurt like hell to have that spark extinguished.

But Washington hasn't retreated. Washington is still crowding him against the window, intimate and warm and close. Hamilton's heart beats faster, and he clutches at the window frame to keep from twisting his fingers in Washington's uniform.

An indecipherable moment passes between them. Hamilton forces himself to hold still. He forces patience, possibly the only time in his life he's ever done so. He forces himself to _wait_.

It's the most difficult thing he's ever done.

When Washington leans down, Hamilton keeps his eyes open until the second he feels the touch of that soft mouth. It's a tentative kiss, _asking_ instead of taking. Gentle in a way Hamilton isn't expecting. But then, of course Washington isn't sure about what he's doing. What indication has Hamilton given of wanting this, other than kissing him in the first place? This is a negotiation in its own way. Wordless but no less complicated for it.

Hamilton lets go of the window frame, parts his lips for the first exploring touch of Washington's tongue. He feels small pressed against so much sturdy muscle, and he curls his arms around Washington's waist, clutches at the back of his uniform jacket. Wills the man to understand: Hamilton is entirely his for the taking.

The message must get through, because it doesn't take long for any hint of gentleness to dissipate. Washington's bulk presses him harder against the window, and strong hands frame Hamilton's face, guiding him to a different angle—a _better_ angle for the thrust of Washington's tongue past parted lips. A moment later and a possessive arm circles him, crushes him even closer. The movement brings their hips together, and Hamilton groans, muffled by the kiss.

God, he's already hard. He fucking _aches_. And now he knows Washington is right there with him—he can feel a matching hardness through their uniforms.

He wonders only briefly if he should leave well enough alone. Maybe he should let Washington set the pace. Maybe he should let this negotiation play itself out and not rush things. He's always had trouble with impulse control; maybe this is one time he should try to do better.

But Hamilton doesn't _want_ to do better. The kiss is no longer anything like a question. It's deep and filthy and full of promise. It's everything he's never dreamed he could have, and he's not going to exercise restraint _now_. He can't. Washington feels too good against him. Too perfect and hot and eager. He still has one hand curled along the side of Hamilton's face, warm and huge.

Hamilton lets go of Washington's uniform and covers that hand with one of his own. Waits the span of a heartbeat before taking firmer hold and guiding the touch lower. Down between their bodies—between Hamilton's legs—to the erection straining against his uniform. Hamilton doesn't mean to break from the kiss, but he tips his head back on a frantic moan when Washington strokes him and gives a deliberate squeeze. An instant later and Washington's mouth is at his neck, claiming hungry kisses. Hamilton is breathing hard. His pulse is a disaster, noisy in his own ears.

He lets go of Washington's hand and reaches for his captain's cock.

Washington's mouth latches hard onto his throat when Hamilton cups him through his uniform, and there's an immediate and thoughtless stutter as he grinds forward into the offered touch. Hamilton thrills at the warm weight of Washington's cock against his palm. Christ, he wishes they were naked right now. The last thing he wants is the interference of all this fabric, preventing him from memorizing every detail of Washington's arousal.

But Washington is already grinding forward into his grip, and Hamilton is nearly mindless himself with the pleasure of Washington's hand on him. He knows he's being noisy, panting and gasping, groaning when Washington gives a particularly forceful squeeze. The mouth at his throat leaves off its trail of messy kisses, and Washington's forehead bumps his temple. They're both breathing hard, lost to sensation and so fucking _close_ —

Hamilton's orgasm takes him just as one of their combadges chirps. The sound is nowhere near enough to stop him now—it's fine, fuck, it's _fine_ , whoever's on the other end of that comm can't hear him—but he buries his cry against Washington's shoulder, shaking hard as he's coaxed through the wave of sensation.

Then Washington's hand covers his own, stilling Hamilton's efforts before he can finish returning the favor. Hamilton's head tips back, thudding softly against the window, and he opens his eyes to find Washington staring at him with wild heat. The cock beneath Hamilton's palm is achingly hard. He can imagine how desperate Washington is to come.

But the combadge chirps again, and this time Hamilton hears Angelica's voice come through, distinctly worried now that her first signal has gone unanswered. "Captain, please respond."

Keeping Hamilton's hand right where it is, Washington taps his communicator and answers, "Go ahead, Commander. Sorry for the delay." He sounds… not normal, exactly, but. Not at all like he's in the middle of intimate activities with a subordinate.

"Sir." There's audible relief in Angelica's voice, but also a hint of urgency. "I didn't want to bother you before our designated check-in, but Starfleet just contacted me for the third time in an hour. They're riding my ass for an update."

Washington's eyes fall closed for just an instant, and when he opens them again they're clearer, heat banked by force of will. "Tell them we may have the treaty signed by morning."

"That's good news, sir."

"Is there anything else?" Washington asks, with strain Hamilton hopes won't carry over the comm.

"No, sir. Schuyler out."

The line goes dead, and Hamilton breathes a shaky sigh of relief. 

His relief is short-lived. When he moves to resume his efforts, the grip on his hand tightens, stilling him once more.

"Sir?" Hamilton's brow furrows.

"Alexander…" The sentence tapers off, unsteady—like Washington has too much to say and can't decide where to start.

Hamilton licks his lips and meets Washington's eyes with an expression of shameless pleading. "Please let me."

"But you _don't want_ this!" Washington protests, louder than he probably intends.

"I really do." God, he wants to see this through. He wants to finish this, and from the way Washington's cock twitches, Hamilton knows he's not the only one. "Sir, please let me do this. I can make you feel so fucking good."

The shadows in Washington's eyes take on a different weight at his plea, igniting anew, and Hamilton thinks—he's almost certain—that Washington is going to say yes. Hell, maybe he'll even let Hamilton have a taste. The floor is hard, but Hamilton doesn't care. He wants to drop to his knees and let Washington fuck his mouth. Taste his captain's release across his tongue.

A loud knock at the door startles them both, dropping Hamilton's heart into a panic even as Washington jerks out of reach. Hamilton glances down and is both shocked and relieved that his uniform looks perfectly dry—god bless Starfleet textile technology—despite how uncomfortable the fact that he just came in his pants like a teenager. Washington has stopped a short distance away, his back to the door as though he's perusing one of the shelves full of books and digital archives.

The door opens shortly after the knock, even though neither Hamilton nor Washington has given any answer.

A skittish-looking envoy pokes her head through, refraining from entering but opening the door wider. She glances between them with an indecipherable expression, and Hamilton honestly can't tell if she knows or cares what she just walked in on. "Ah, there you are. Sirs, the ambassadors are ready to resume. At your convenience, of course." Then she's gone, quick as she appeared, vanishing back into the hall and shutting the door behind her.

Hamilton hesitates only an instant once they're alone again. "Sir, I could still—"

" _No_."

There's no room for argument, so Hamilton falls silent. He stands as still as he can, watching his captain will himself back under control. When Washington finally turns around, there's nothing at all to hint that he was on the verge of orgasm only moments ago.

Hamilton has no delusions about his own appearance. Belatedly, he tugs loose his mussed queue and combs his fingers through his hair, tying it tightly back. There's nothing he can do about the bright flush along his skin, or the stickiness beneath his clothes.

Washington looks him up and down with an appraising eye. "Good enough. Let's get this treaty signed."


	5. Chapter 5

Hamilton returns to the ship hours before Washington, dismissed as superfluous once all parties agree to a final draft of the treaty.

He doesn't take it personally. For one thing he's riled and exhausted, and all he wants is a clean uniform. For another, he _is_ superfluous to all the glad-handing and congratulations that will follow the signing. Washington isn't conspiring to avoid him this time; Hamilton simply isn't needed. He strongly suspects Washington would excuse himself from the festivities as well if he could get away with it.

Considering Hamilton hasn't slept in thirty-six hours, he should probably rest on returning to the ship. He's mostly kept his promise to Peggy Schuyler during this never-ending month of negotiations. But even though it's nearly dawn at the arbitration site, he's too tightly wound. Energy buzzes beneath his skin. He needs to talk to Washington.

He's won't sleep while this fresh wave of unfinished business hovers between them.

Hamilton makes a point of arriving in transporter room two just as Washington beams aboard. Mindful of the ensign at the controls, he keeps his demeanor professional.

"Welcome back, sir." He's standing at perfect attention, but Washington's eyes narrow on taking him in. 

Hamilton wonders if he looks as exhausted as he feels. Hopefully not. He doesn't like sleep, and two straight days without isn't unusual. John Laurens once joked that if he saw Hamilton _without_ dark circles under his eyes, he probably wouldn't recognize his own best friend.

He probably looks the same as always: tired, determined, and ready for a fight.

It's not really a fight he's braced for, though. Not after the new ground broken between them on the planet below.

Washington glances to the transporter tech and offers a polite, "Thank you, Ensign," before turning his full focus back onto Hamilton. There's something gauging and heavy in the captain's silent regard. Hamilton squares his shoulders. He doesn't shrink beneath the scrutiny.

"Walk with me, Lieutenant." Washington makes for the door.

Hamilton falls into step beside him, but out in the corridor Washington slows. Allows Hamilton to take the lead without saying a word.

Fine. Hamilton can work with this. He strides with purpose all the way to his own quarters, Washington at his side, matching his pace.

His quarters are smaller than those of the senior staff, but they're plenty large enough to continue this conversation. Hell, his last promotion got him a room with an _actual bed_ instead of a narrow bunk set into the wall. He's got a skinny viewport that currently offers a glimpse of clouds and water on the planet below. No more roommates. A replicator of his own. There's an actual _console_ against the wall, his own dedicated workstation—a luxury that often helps him forego sleep.

The space is small, but it's _his_.

"Can I get you anything?" Hamilton asks, even though this is far from a normal social call. He considers locking the door. Decides it's not worth the chance of spooking his captain. These are his private quarters; no one will burst in unannounced.

"No," Washington says stiffly. "Thank you." He's barely moved away from the door.

This time, Hamilton can see through the calm facade.

He's too restless to sit down, so he leans against his work station instead. Crosses his arms. Uncrosses them a moment later and curls his fingers over the edge of the console. His heartbeat is erratic in his chest. God, his face is warm, when did his quarters get so fucking _hot_? He can't stop staring at Washington.

At least Washington is staring right back.

Hamilton draws a slow breath and forces himself to break the uninvited silence. "I know you still want me."

And whatever response he expected, it's not the one he gets. Washington _laughs_ at the words. A short, strangled bark of sound, echoing with surprise and disbelief. He's not smiling, but the worst of the stiffness eases from his shoulders as he gawps at Hamilton.

"For God's sake, of course I do." Washington takes a single step forward, but the room is so small even this brings him significantly closer. "This isn't just about what I _want_. It's not that simple."

"Captain—" Hamilton starts to protest, but Washington shakes his head hard, silencing him with the gesture.

Washington's voice is maddeningly soft a moment later. "Nothing between us has _ever_ been simple."

The way he says it—the glimmer feeling beneath quiet exasperation—sets Hamilton's heartbeat speeding even faster. A wild feeling ignites in his chest, urgent like panic but _much_ more pleasant.

"Sir?"

Washington flinches at the address, but doesn't contradict him. It's not as though either one of them can ignore the reality of their situation. Their respective ranks won't change. No amount of candor will alter the fact that Washington is his commanding officer. According to Starfleet regulations, this _can't happen_. Hamilton wishes he could care about all that. He wishes he could convince his heart that it matters one iota, because it's cruel of him to put Washington in this position.

But he is incapable of backing down now.

"I'm not asking you for anything," Washington says at last. "I _will not_ ask you for anything. And I'm still willing to reassign you, should you wish it."

Hamilton tries not to bristle, but the notion of being sent away still raises his hackles. Denial twists violently in his gut. He _doesn't want it_. He will _never_ want it.

"I'm not going to change my mind, sir." At least his voice sounds almost normal. "I want to stay right where I am."

"Yes." Washington gives him a wry look. "You've made that abundantly clear. Nonetheless the offer stands."

Hamilton bites his tongue and reminds himself to be rational. Of course Washington needs to make sure Alexander doesn't feel trapped. If he were going to take the decision away, he'd have done it by now. Which means Hamilton doesn't have to worry about his captain going behind his back. The offer is still on the table, but that's all it is: an offer.

Washington's just trying to do right by him in a fucked up situation. Surely Hamilton can curb his own headstrong, defensive rage for once in his stubborn life.

He aims for a conciliatory tone this time. "I don't want it. But thank you." Then, soft and terrified and so hopeful his chest hurts, "And you don't have to ask me for anything. I'm yours regardless."

Washington sucks in a hard breath and _stares_ at him, eyes so wide it might be comical in any other circumstance. But Hamilton's heart is racing, and his stomach clenches, tight and hot and terrified. It's a gamble—Washington could still shoot him down—but what other choice does Hamilton have?

He's been in love with his captain for years. If Washington feels the same, then what the _fuck_ are they waiting for?

"Alexander, you can't mean that."

Hamilton shivers at the sound of his name, but he he squares his shoulders. In for a fucking penny. He's never run from a challenge, and he's _not_ going to run from this. 

"You were right, before. There's nothing simple about this. But what happened in that lab… It doesn't change anything. I've had these feelings for you a long fucking time. I thought…" He hasn't taken a breath so far, and he has to pause to remedy the problem. Breathes in fast and hard, rushing to continue before he can lose his nerve. "I thought it was _my_ fault. I thought the machine fucked with your head because it knew what _I_ wanted." His own fears, his own guilt, all a perfect match for everything Washington confessed just a few hours ago.

Washington is still staring at him, so Hamilton soldiers on. "If both of us want this, can't we start over?"

There. He's said it out loud. The only thing he can do now is pray Washington will _listen_.

The silence stretches so long it feels like an impasse, strained and painful. Then Washington's posture loosens—just a fraction—and his expression softens from shock to something more considering.

"You're serious."

"I've never lied to you, sir." Hamilton doesn't mean to sound affronted, but… he _hasn't_. Not once in the entire time he's been serving on Washington's crew. Omission doesn't count; he's allowed to keep secrets, guard his feelings. He couldn't have known he wasn't alone in doing so. But he's never once spoken anything less than truth. "And I'm not lying now. Why can't we do this?"

"Because I have _no right_."

"I'm _offering_ ," Hamilton retorts desperately. "You have _every_ right!"

But Washington just stands there with his hands clasped tight behind his back, his expression raw and open. "And before? Everything I took. The way I touched you, the way I put you on that floor without any thought to what I was doing—" The words choke to nothing, and it's in a quieter voice that Washington repeats like a confession, "I hurt you."

"No, you _didn't_." Hamilton can see imminent protest in Washington's expression, so he barrels on ahead of the interruption. "Even if you had. That goddamn machine— It _wasn't you_ , just like it wasn't really me begging for it on some floor in the middle of an away mission. That wasn't what either of us wanted."

Washington seems to have given up on the idea of interrupting him, at least. Hamilton presses his advantage, letting months of anger spit through, needing to be heard.

"Sir, how many ways can I say it? Neither of us should've been in that lab. Neither of us should have behaved the way we did. But if it wasn't my fault, then it sure as hell wasn't _yours_ either." All this he delivers with barely a pause. He can tell his ferocity has taken Washington aback, but he doesn't dare stop now. "I _know you_ , sir. I know you better than anyone. You're not perfect, but you've never been a hypocrite before."

Washington sounds wrecked when he says, "I remember so clearly. I held you down _so easily_."

"I remember, too. I wasn't exactly trying to get away." Hamilton recalls vividly, how desperate he was to be touched. How good it felt to have Washington hold him down—Washington's fingers working him open—Washington's cock fucking into him deep and hard. Finally being _taken_ , after years of fantasizing about his captain. He should have cared that it didn't make sense, that he wasn't thinking clearly, but he didn't. Not so long as Washington kept touching him.

He also remembers the instant the machine shut down. The gut-kick of clarity, sudden and horrifying. The force of rational thought rushing straight back into his head, despite the ache of Washington's cock still inside him.

If Washington's memories are even half as powerful, it's no wonder he's been keeping Hamilton at a distance.

"It wasn't us," Hamilton repeats more calmly. "We weren't in our right minds. But we can try again. We can do this right. You and me."

Washington is quiet so long, he _must_ be seriously considering the offer. When he speaks, his voice is guarded and low. "Then what happens now? Where do we go from here?"

Hamilton's heart lurches with a dangerous spike of hope, and he pushes away from the console. He could touch Washington now, if he just raised his hand between them. He keeps his arms at his sides. "You could kiss me."

Washington shakes his head. "That's not a good idea."

"But, _sir_ —"

"I'm still captain of this ship, and you are still a subordinate under my direct command."

"I don't care." It's selfish. Lord knows how screwed Washington will be if Starfleet Command catches wind of this conversation. But Hamilton needs this. They both do. "I can't go back to the way things were before. I can't just… pretend I _don't know_ all this. And I don't think you can, either."

There's still too much hesitation on Washington's face. Uncertainty, maybe even fear.

Hamilton doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to be anything but perfectly honest.

"Are you in love with me?" he asks. Because maybe Washington _isn't_ ; maybe that's the problem. They've agreed this thing between them isn't just physical, but there's a whole spectrum of things that could mean. Maybe they're not on the same page after all.

But Washington's expression blows wide open at the question, stricken and raw. It's all the _yes_ Hamilton needs to bolster him forward.

"Because I'm in love with you," he says. "And I don't give a fuck about regulations. This is between us. Nobody else needs to know."

"Alexander…" Washington's face sifts through reactions too quickly to interpret, but Hamilton is desperately sure he spots a glimpse of hope amid the chaos.

"Despite evidence to the contrary, I _can_ keep a secret." Hamilton risks a smile, weak but genuine. "I kept this one, didn't I?"

"You did," Washington concedes. He sounds winded. "I had no idea you felt that way."

"Please kiss me?" Hamilton is barely holding still now. It's difficult to keep his hands to himself, to maintain the last fragment of distance between them. He wants to take a single step forward and lean into Washington's space. He wants to take this for himself. God, his bed is _right there_ , they could fall straight into it if Washington would just say _yes_.

He's still half terrified Washington will turn around and leave, no matter how mutual these feelings are. Leaving would be the smart thing for both of them. 

Hamilton doesn't care. He's laid everything he's got on the line. He needs a different answer.

Finally Washington takes a single step— _forward_ , thank God—that puts him directly in Hamilton's space. "Computer," he calls in a stern voice, "lock door."

There's a confirming beep, and then Washington is reaching for him. Curling one hand with surprising gentleness at the nape of Hamilton's neck, sliding the other to the small of his back. Kissing him.

It's such a careful kiss, hesitant and tender. It makes Hamilton's ribs ache, and he wraps his arms around Washington's waist in return. His fiercest instincts urge him to change this into something more aggressive; he's always been skittish around gentle touches and kindness. But this is _Washington_. And Hamilton resists the impulse until it fades, until he finds himself melting beneath his captain's hands.

He's not calm exactly—how could he possibly be calm _now_ —but he feels grounded in his own skin. More content than he's ever been in his life. And when the kiss ends, Washington doesn't let him go. He tucks Hamilton close and holds on, ducking his head to bury his face in the collar of Hamilton's uniform, inhaling deeply. Like he's trying to memorize the scent of him.

Hamilton shivers at the quiet intimacy, but he hangs on just as tightly. "Please stay," he says. "Here. Tonight. Stay with me."

Washington stills, and Hamilton's gut twists at the thought that maybe Washington _still_ doesn't want to stay. After everything they've admitted to each other, maybe this is still too much.

Disappointment floods him alongside a tidal wave of guilt.

"Fuck, I'm sorry." He's being selfish. He's _always_ been selfish. He has to do better, even if he ends up shattering his own heart in the process. "You can go if you want. I'll be fine, and we'll… We can talk tomorrow." He tries not to let the disappointment reach his voice.

No matter how badly he wants this, he won't risk pressuring his captain into something that might feel like a mistake tomorrow. If Washington is here, Hamilton needs him _here_. Needs him sure.

Hamilton has never half-assed anything in his life. He can't start now.

At least Washington doesn't let go. Even as the silence stretches uncomfortably between them, Washington _doesn't let go_ , and Hamilton forces himself to breathe.

"Are you sure you want me to stay?" Washington finally asks. There's no fight in the question—only care and caution. They both understand what's going to happen if Washington remains in his quarters tonight. They both know _exactly_ where this is going.

God, in a life full of wanting, Hamilton has never wanted anything more desperately than this.

He draws a shaky breath and rests a hand over Washington's heart, pushes him just far enough back for eye contact. He lets Washington see just how much he means it when he answers, "Entirely." Then, because he never _has_ known when to quit, Hamilton lets a wicked smile sneak across his face. "And, sir? You can be as gentle as you want, but believe me. You don't have to."

Washington snorts an amused sound. His expression softens, not quite a smile but damn close. There is obvious affection in the dark glint of his eyes. A moment later he presses a kiss to Hamilton's forehead—lingers there—and in the silence Hamilton can hear nothing but his own frantic heartbeat.

"Do me one favor?" Washington says, the words brushing Hamilton's skin.

" _Anything_."

Washington draws back. "Please don't call me 'sir' in bed." There's humor in the request, but also something genuine and pleading.

Hamilton searches his eyes. "George?" he tries hesitantly. He certainly can't imagine addressing his captain as 'Washington', in _or_ out of bed. But he can see how 'sir' and 'captain' are untenable under the circumstances.

Again Washington's eyes go soft. "George will do fine."

Then he kisses Hamilton again. It's still a slow kiss, taking his time, but any hint of caution has vanished. In its place burns a hint of possessiveness, a new desperation in all the places Washington is holding him. Washington's tongue traces the barely parted seam of Alexander's lips, and he opens for his captain readily, eager to let him in. 

"Can I?" Hamilton asks when Washington releases his mouth in favor of pressing heated kisses along his throat. His fingers have sought the top of Washington's collar, and they're restless against the material. "I want to see you out of this uniform." For all the intimate knowledge he possesses of his captain, he's never seen Washington naked. His skin warms just considering the possibility.

"Of course you can," Washington says. "Of course, Alexander, _anything_."

And _God_ , Hamilton hopes he really means that. For now he focuses on shoving the jacket from Washington's shoulders, then grasps the hem of the shirt beneath and—with Washington raising his arms to help—makes quick work of that, too.

He wants the rest of Washington's uniform gone—wants his captain laid completely bare—but Hamilton stops for a moment, breathless at the sight before him. He stares at the sturdy muscle of Washington's bare chest, the line of broad shoulders, the bulky strength Hamilton has been fantasizing about since he first came aboard. So much better than his imagination could ever conjure.

Fucking perfect.

Washington's skin is hot beneath Hamilton's palms, smooth but for a handful of scars along his chest and side. The scars are old, healed over into raised edges, paler than the captain's dark skin. Hamilton's brow furrows as he traces them with his fingers. He wonders how they were obtained. Washington must have been wounded beyond the reach of Federation medicine, to still bear such scars.

Hamilton has read Washington's file. He had no qualms about hacking into classified Starfleet documents when he was first transferred to Washington's crew. But there's a blank wall where information about the man's life before the Academy should go. Not redacted or classified; just a complete lack of information.

"I was not always a Starfleet officer," Washington says as though reading Hamilton's thoughts. He sounds neither impatient nor offended. His hands have settled on Alexander's hips as he allows time for this curious exploration. "They don't bother me anymore."

"I want to know where you got them." Hamilton is still trailing his fingers along uneven paths of scar tissue. "If… If you'll tell me. I want to know everything."

"Another time." Washington ducks his head to catch Hamilton's mouth, distracting him with a hungrier kiss. Washington's grip tightens on him, pulls him close, and Hamilton hums as strong arms circle him. He feels guarded. Cherished. And even though he has always been terrified of such feelings—he's never wanted to rely on _anyone_ —he warms at the sensation of being protected.

He shuts away a muted wave of anxiety and allows George to hold him. Hamilton has never quite learned how to trust anyone besides himself, but he'll be _damned_ if he lets that stop him now.

Pressed close like this, Hamilton can tell mutual arousal will wear through their patience soon. He can feel Washington, hard against his hip, grinding forward without conscious purpose. Seeking the same friction Hamilton craves. The air is too warm. Hamilton is _melting_ in his uniform, and he needs it gone. He needs the rest of his captain's clothes gone, too—needs _both_ of them naked, and Washington's weight on top of him, Washington's warmth between his thighs, Washington's hands all over bare skin as he holds Hamilton down.

" _Fuck_ ," Hamilton breaks from the kiss, patience already gone. "Get me out of this goddamn uniform." He throws his jacket to the floor, and then Washington's hands are there. Helping, dragging at his clothes. Hamilton kicks his boots off behind him. He shivers when Washington drops to one knee in order to help drag pants and briefs down his legs.

The air in his quarters is still too hot, but Hamilton doesn't care. He's completely bare now, and he wishes his captain were, too. Hamilton _needs this_. But he bites his lower lip as Washington rises smoothly from the floor. He forces himself to stand still. Washington allowed him to look his fill; the very least Hamilton can do is return the favor, even if the weight of undivided attention makes him want to squirm.

Washington's hands are gentle when they touch him—reverent—and Hamilton's breath catches in his chest. When his lungs resume, he's breathing hard.

He inhales sharply when Washington presses a kiss below his jaw. Washington keeps his mouth there, right at Alexander's pulse point, capturing the skin lightly between his teeth. Hamilton wonders if his captain intends to mark him. Surely not, considering how discreet they need to be. But desire kicks hot in his chest at the thought. Maybe he can convince Washington to mark him somewhere less obvious. He wants to wake tomorrow wearing possessive bruises. He wants to see them in the mirror and know he didn't imagine this.

"George?" he breathes as Washington's mouth dips lower along his neck. "Can we…"

His usual eloquence is gone, chased away by sensation and desperation. He draws a shaky breath, tilting his head back and baring his throat in encouragement.

"Can we what, Alexander?" The words are murmured between kisses, and Hamilton shivers at the low rumble of his name.

He opens his eyes—doesn't know when he closed them—and blinks dazedly at the ceiling. "It's okay if you don't want to," he says, though his tone belies the words. "But I really want you to fuck me."

"Are you sure?" Washington asks into the skin of his shoulder.

Hamilton chokes on an incredulous laugh. Fuck, he's gagging for it. He couldn't be more desperate if the universe were about to implode.

" _Fuck_ yes." He groans at a harder sting of teeth just above his collar bone. Fuck. If Washington refuses, Hamilton will deal; there are a whole lot of things they can do instead. Plenty of other ways to satisfy each other. But he's wanted Washington for so long, exactly like this. He's wanted Washington to _fuck him_ for _so long_.

And ever since Washington mounted him on that goddamn planet, Hamilton's been caught in the memory. The whirlwind of physical sensation—desire, pleasure, satisfaction— _intimacy_ … and then everything else. The moment of awareness, the horror of his own compromised mind, the guilt of wondering if he was to blame.

He wants something better. He wants a different memory to come first. This. _Them_. Choosing for themselves.

He tucks his face to Washington's chest. "If you don't want to—"

"I do," Washington blurts, and the words ghost hot over Hamilton's skin.

He shivers and twists in Washington's arms, wordlessly demanding another kiss.

He's reluctant to put any space at all between them, but a moment later he takes a step back and away.

"Get out of those clothes." Hamilton glares at the pants and boots Washington is still wearing, then turns to fetch what he needs. "I'll be right back."

He already has lube on hand, because a years-long dry spell doesn't mean he's left his own needs untended. Just because he hasn't slept with anyone since he joined Washington's crew—just because he's been harboring this secret longer than he ever plans to admit—doesn't mean he's made of stone. He can't even guess how many times he's gotten off riding his own fingers, wishing they belonged to his captain.

He wonders now, with the benefit of hindsight, how many times Washington has thought about him. Curiosity itches along his spine. Surely Washington has fantasies. Surely he's imagined having Hamilton any number of ways.

Hamilton wants to know them all. He wants to give Washington— _George_ —every fantasy they've ever indulged between them.

When he turns, small bottle palmed in his hand, he finds Washington standing naked before him. Washington's gaze is angled low, but it rises quickly, and his bright flush makes it obvious he was enjoying the view.

Their eyes lock, and for a moment they both stand motionless. Anticipation zings fast and sharp along Hamilton's nerves. God, he's hard. Washington is too, and the sight of his naked cock makes Hamilton's mouth water.

It's Washington who moves first, backing up a single step and sitting on the edge of Hamilton's bed. His posture is loose, pure invitation. 

Hamilton follows, tossing the bottle carelessly on the mattress. He is a whirlwind of wants, desperate for too many things at once, but he doesn't hesitate—he's never been one to second guess a decision once made—even as he pauses before Washington. Never mind that less than thirty seconds ago he was begging Washington to fuck him; there's still plenty of time for that. Hamilton wants something else first.

With a nudge of his knee he urges Washington's legs wider. Fresh heat ignites behind dark eyes as Washington makes space for him, and Hamilton drops to his knees. He's fantasized about _this_ , too. Dozens of times, maybe hundreds. He's imagined the gorgeous line of Washington's cock, the way it would feel in his grip, the weight of it on his tongue.

Reality is even better. Hamilton meets his captain's steady gaze as he curls his fingers around the base and gives a single firm stroke. The sound Washington breathes is heavenly—a low, filthy groan—and a thrill of pleasure shivers down Hamilton's spine. He ducks his head and draws Washington past parted lips. Just a taste at first, but he quickly bobs lower. Eager. Greedy. His own arousal hones bright at the welcome bitterness across his tongue. He inhales through his nose and swallows deeper, giddy at the hitch in Washington's breath.

A moment later and Washington's fingers are tugging his queue loose and carding through his hair. Not taking hold or pulling—not rough the way Hamilton might plead for if this weren't all so new—just touching him. Wordless encouragement alongside quickening breaths. Washington doesn't interfere with Hamilton's pace, lets him work unimpeded.

Until suddenly he takes firmer hold—Hamilton shudders with pleasure at the sensation—and tugs Hamilton away with a breathless, "Stop."

Hamilton raises his head and finds his captain staring down at him with wide eyes. Feeling flashes honest and raw in Washington's expression, and he lets go of Hamilton's hair to touch his face. Gentle fingers along his cheekbone, palm brushing his jaw, thumb tracing Hamilton's slick lower lip. There's something almost reverent in Washington's touch, and Hamilton draws an unsteady breath.

"Look at you." There is audible wonder in Washington's voice.

Hamilton licks his lips and glances down, stares longingly at the slick cock still standing at attention.

Washington chuckles, an affectionate sound that warms Hamilton all over. "I don't think so," he says as though reading Hamilton's mind, stroking fingers through his hair. "Not if you want me lasting long enough to fuck you."

And god, Hamilton _does_ still want that. He wants it desperately. And the sound of Washington's voice—the bluntness of the statement—sends a fresh spike of arousal careening through him. Washington doesn't swear. He doesn't use vulgar language. To hear him speak this way, to know they are really going to do this… God, Hamilton has to close his eyes for a moment to collect himself, or he's going to come right here on his knees without a hand on him.

"Get up here." The words are more plea than command, soft in Washington's warm baritone, and Hamilton rises quickly from the floor.

He settles astride warm thighs, biting back a groan when Washington tugs him closer. Their cocks nudge together in a fleeting brush of not-enough. The mattress is soft beneath his knees, a contrast to the hard muscle of Washington's shoulders as Hamilton holds on—surrendering to the renewed demand of Washington's mouth on his. Long fingers curl around his cock and give a teasing stroke. A wild sound escapes him at the touch, but his cry is lost against Washington's lips.

Hamilton breaks reluctantly from the kiss, desperate for air as Washington works him. He clings hard to his captain, buries his face beneath Washington's jaw. It's good—it's so fucking good—and Hamilton's chest is heaving, his whole body alight as he draws closer to the edge.

Just short of the finish line Washington _stops_ , and Hamilton chokes on a sob as the warm touch disappears.

"Shh, I'm sorry." Washington threads gentle fingers through his hair. "Not yet, we're not there yet."

Hamilton drags in a shuddering breath, and his spinning senses calm enough for him to _think_. He is after more than Washington's hand on his cock, no matter how perfectly he could come just from this. He's angling for a different prize.

Hamilton darts in for another kiss, quick and filthy, before reaching for the lube on the bed beside them. He works quickly—takes Washington's hand and slicks those beautiful fingers.

"I assume you know what to do with this?" Hamilton teases. His voice is light despite the clench of feeling in his chest.

Washington just leans forward to nip at his jaw, then reaches behind Hamilton, slick touch searching with purpose.

Hamilton's eyes fall shut as Washington presses two fingers deftly inside him. Tight muscle strains around the digits, and he wills his body to relax as those fingers slip deeper. Washington's touch is careful but sure. Confident despite the imperfect angle. He curls his fingers just so, slowly working Hamilton loose. There is no hesitation now that they're here—only care, hunger, heat. Hamilton buries a moan against Washington's neck, thrilling as those fingers sink inside him to the last knuckle.

"Is this okay?" Washington's voice is a rumble so low Hamilton _feels_ more than hears it.

He laughs, wild and winded. "God yes. Don't stop." It's so much better than the first time. The intimate patience grounds Hamilton as Washington works him open. Going slow. Making him feel so good he's not even thinking about a frantic encounter or a cold metal floor.

It's a long time before Washington's fingers withdraw.

Hamilton feels empty without them, aching to be filled. He slicks Washington's cock and rises onto his knees, scooting forward to position himself. Washington holds him by the hips now, bruising strength in his hands, eyes dilated fiercely.

Those eyes are asking permission. Incredulous and eager. Ravenous. Like Washington is just as floored by what they're doing as Hamilton is.

Hamilton wonders what his own face looks like. He wonders if his eyes are flashing that wide, if his mouth is swollen and red. If he looks as flushed and honest as he feels.

Then Washington's hands are urging him down, and Hamilton has no brainpower for anything beyond the cock nudging at his entrance. He sinks lower, gasps aloud the moment the head slips inside. He welcomes the ache as his body stretches to accommodate Washington's impressive girth. Gravity and firm hands drag him steadily lower, and Hamilton is lightheaded at the sensation of being filled so completely. Riding down on the hard length inside him. Taking his captain in.

His eyes are open; so are Washington's. Face to face like this, close enough to feel the hot breath between them, it's almost too much. There's a fire igniting in this room, burning bright and hot as a star. Hamilton's holding on too tight, but Washington is too. There will be bruises at his hips tomorrow.

He is inexpressibly glad for it.

Hamilton doesn't stop moving until Washington's cock is seated fully inside him. Perfect stillness falls between them, and they stare at each other, wordless and panting. Overwhelmed. Hamilton is desperately aware of the hard length inside him. He feels full—owned—vulnerable with the ache of Washington's cock spreading him open.

He rises once more onto his knees, and Washington's slick length slides partway out of him. The hitch of Washington's breath goes straight to Hamilton's cock, and his own breath punches out hard as he lowers himself again. The movement takes Washington deep, and Hamilton thrills at the intimate mix of discomfort and shocky pleasure.

It can't last long. Not with both of them so primed and _close_.

"Can I—" Washington starts to ask, and Hamilton doesn't even need to hear the rest of the sentence. Because no matter what Washington asks, the answer will be the same.

"Yes," he blurts. "Fuck, _yes_ , do it—"

And then he's gasping aloud, head spinning as Washington lifts him—as Washington pulls out—and then rearranges them. His captain is deft and overwhelmingly strong as he lays Hamilton along the bed, then shoves him onto his back. Hamilton spreads his legs and tugs him close. Washington's biceps strain, but he moves readily, slips his welcome bulk into the space Hamilton has made for him.

Washington is all strength and muscle and soft warmth between Hamilton's thighs. A moment later and his hands take possessive hold, forcing Hamilton's legs wider as Washington positions himself.

They share an instant's stillness.

And then Washington fucks forward, claiming him once more.

Hamilton's head falls back, his cry a sound of pure pleasure. Sturdy weight settles on top of him now, bearing him into the mattress, and Hamilton rolls his hips, urging Washington deeper. He twines his arms about Washington's shoulders and clings. His cock is trapped between their bodies, the friction equal parts perfect and maddening. Washington's breath is hot against the side of his neck as strong arms encircle and hold him in turn.

It doesn't take long before Washington is in motion—on top of him—inside him, filling Hamilton deeper with every pounding thrust. It's a breathless rhythm, and Hamilton hangs on for the ride, panting greedily for more.

He groans when Washington stills inside him. Washington gasps aloud, buries his face against Hamilton's jaw. One hand is warm between Hamilton's spine and the mattress, the other curls along the curve of his ribs.

"Are you all right?" Washington rumbles the question directly into Hamilton's skin. "Is this all right?" At least Washington is breathing hard too, panting fast and hot. God, they're both so close. It's so fucking _perfect_ ; the last thing Hamilton wants is for Washington to _stop_.

"Keep going," he snarls. He wraps his legs around Washington's waist, rolling his hips upward with the extra leverage. " _Fuck_ , keep going, don't stop." His cock is hard as a goddamn diamond, trapped between their stomachs as Washington's hips buck forward once. Washington's weight is maddening above him, so much strength and careful control. Holding him down. They're both trembling. And fuck, Hamilton isn't physically strong enough to _make_ Washington keep going, but if this stillness persists he's going to lose his mind.

It's only a matter of seconds before Washington resumes his previous rhythm, and Hamilton moans in relief. _Yes_ , oh God, yes. A handful of thrusts and the rhythm picks up faster, harder. Brutal now, rough and hungry and exactly what Hamilton needs. He'll hurt tomorrow. There will be no mistaking this for a dream.

Hamilton comes first. He shouts as his body goes taut, pleasure igniting so suddenly it knocks the air out of him.

It takes him a moment to breathe again, to regain any sense of his surroundings. Washington is still fucking him, and every thrust verges on _too much_ in the wake of Hamilton's orgasm. 

All of a heartbeat later, Washington stills. His cry is muffled against Hamilton's collarbone, but his hands tighten where they're holding him down, careful strength turned careless in the moment of release.

They collapse together in the overheated moments that follow. The narrow bed isn't really wide enough for two, but Hamilton doesn't mind. There's something reassuring in the weight of Washington's sated body on top of him. Even if he did mind, Hamilton would be too exhausted to protest. His eyes fall closed, heavy beyond his control.

"Alexander?"

Hamilton only breathes a quiet hum in answer to the soft nudge of his captain's voice.

"Alexander," Washington tries again, but Hamilton is sinking fast. He's so tired—he can't remember how long it's been since he slept—and his bed is so comfortable with Washington in it. Warm. Safe. He curls more comfortably beneath Washington's weight, nuzzles sleepily at smooth skin.

He might be imagining the huff of exasperated laughter that ruffles his hair. Sleep is encroaching too soundly, carrying him under. He barely notices the mattress dipping. He's too tired to even protest when the weight and warmth disappear, Washington rising from the bed.

Hamilton is sound asleep before his captain returns.


	6. Chapter 6

Epilogue

"Dismissed, everyone," Washington announces with a final glance across the conference room. His senior staff rise with a shuffle, scattered conversations murmuring to life. It feels damn good to worry about the mundane for once—departmental updates, repair schedules, duty rosters. After what feels like months of crisis after crisis, they're overdue for a little smooth sailing.

Only Hamilton remains seated, doing his damnedest to look busy with the information on the screen before him. Though he isn't technically senior staff, no one has ever questioned his presence at these meetings. It's only a matter of time before a promotion earns the boy an official seat at this table, but in the meantime Washington cannot do without him. Not if he wants his ship to run smooth and efficient and _right_.

His officers depart without hurry. Angelica is the last to reach the door, and Washington doesn't know what to make of the way she pauses there, or the single eyebrow she raises at him. She's gone before he can ask, the door swishing quietly shut behind her. Leaving Washington alone with Hamilton.

The fact that Hamilton has lingered means he has something important to say, but Washington can't imagine what it might be.

If it were ship-related he could have approached the moment the meeting ended, no need to wait for the room to empty. When it comes to duty and Starfleet, there are no secrets among Washington's senior staff. But if it's something more personal—something private—he's at a loss. It's only been two hours since they were last alone, waking together in Washington's bed.

Hamilton rises once the room is clear, crossing his arms over his chest. His brow is furrowed—an expression that always makes Washington want to touch and smooth the crease away—and his mouth presses into a thin line.

Washington is familiar with all of Hamilton's expressions. He's always watched closely, but ever since their new understanding he has become an even more devoted student. This expression speaks of trouble—worry—but nothing disastrous. Whatever is bothering his Alexander, it can't be that bad.

"What's wrong?" Washington rounds the table, stopping before he's close enough to touch. There's a time and place for casual intimacies, and this is not one of them.

Five months into this new—thrilling, daunting, terrifying—affair, they still take no unnecessary chances.

Hamilton meets his eyes, steady and warm, and says, "Angelica knows."

Washington's mind catches on the statement like the loose corner of a rug, trips on futile denial, and finally rights itself. His own brow creases as he searches for any flaw in their facade. They've been so careful. He's never once touched Hamilton outside the privacy of their quarters. Not even in his own office, determined as he is not to let rank and duty intermix with the intimately personal. There has been nothing for Angelica—or anyone else—to witness that might give them away.

"How?"

Hamilton gives a one-shouldered shrug. "She knows us. And she's noticed that I don't sleep in my own quarters anymore. Apparently that's all it took for her to figure out we're fucking."

Washington bites his tongue to stop himself rebuking Hamilton's crude language. He doesn't take it personally. Washington knows his boy well enough to recognize the defensive stance. Alexander was the first to admit just how deep this thing runs between them. It's not just sex—not just fucking—it never could be.

"She told you this today?" Washington masks his displeasure behind a wry tone.

Dark eyebrows rise, because of course Hamilton sees right through him. "She cornered me in the turbolift. She… wanted to make sure I was okay."

Washington swallows hard, torn between offense and gratitude. Offense at Commander Schuyler harboring worry that Washington could do his boy harm… But gratitude at knowing there is someone so competent and blunt looking out for Hamilton. The gratitude is by far the more potent. Secure as he is in Alexander's affections, he will never entirely shake the fear that he is taking advantage.

And Angelica is not just his first officer. She's a friend, and she knows more than most. She knows what happened, the ugliness that preceded their new understanding. Of course she's worried.

"What did you tell her?"

"That I'm fine. That _we're_ fine. And that it's none of her goddamn business."

Washington cringes, imagining Hamilton's tone. Defensiveness and confrontation. It won't have offered much reassurance.

"Relax." There's fondness in Hamilton's faint smile. "I was diplomatic."

"She's not wrong to worry."

Hamilton's expression sobers. "I know. I get it, okay? We are _uniquely poised_ to fuck each other up. But I'm not scared, and I'm sure as hell not letting Angelica Schuyler tell me how to live my life."

"She's second in command of this ship, Alexander. _Any_ abuse of the chain of command is her direct concern."

"Don't talk like that." Hamilton glares at him, all wrath and insubordination. "You're _not_ abusing the chain of command."

"I'm certainly not respecting it." It's an old argument, and one he has no intention of winning. He's already made his peace with this particular hypocrisy.

Hamilton's expression softens. "George, stop it. We've covered this ground too many times already."

Washington doesn't bother pointing out that they're sure to cover it again. And again. That certain as he is of the path before them—certain as he is of _Alexander_ —he can't simply will this conflict of interest not to exist. He is Hamilton's captain. His direct superior. Their relationship is secret for a reason.

"She won't report us," Hamilton says. "Angelica can keep a secret. Mostly. Eliza and Peggy will probably know by morning, but it won't go beyond them."

"And if it does?"

"It won't." Hamilton sounds so confident, Washington can almost bring himself to believe it.

He doesn't know what he'll do if— _when_ —their secret is discovered. He only knows that he _will not_ lose Alexander. Starfleet, his ship, his career… He doesn't want to forfeit those things. But he will in a heartbeat if that is the price.

"Stop catastrophizing." Hamilton uncrosses his arms and takes a step closer. There's still just enough distance between them for the sake of propriety. "I've got your back. You know that, right?"

It's more difficult not to touch when Alexander is looking at him like this. Earnest, ferocious, honest. He looks impossibly young.

And beautiful. God, how did Washington ever live in a world without this?

"I know." He's going to say more. He's going to find words for truths he won't be able to press into Alexander's skin for hours yet. He's never been an eloquent man, but he is going to try—

His combadge chirps before he finds the words, and Eliza's voice cuts clear and smooth through the quiet. "Schuyler to Washington."

Suppressing a sigh, Washington taps his badge. "Go ahead."

"Sir, you asked to be notified when I'm ready to brief tomorrow's contact team. Do you still want to oversee preparations?"

He wants to say no. More than that, he wants to drag Alexander back to his quarters and continue their conversation in private. Instead he says, "Of course. I'll be there in ten minutes. Washington out."

The line closes, but Washington's thoughts are scattered.

Hamilton smiles at him, mischief and cheek. "You should go. I'll see you on the bridge."

"And tonight?" Washington checks, feeling ridiculous but needing the reassurance.

"Of course tonight." Hamilton's smile softens. "Don't let Burr con you into working a double shift. Your bed's too huge to sleep in alone."

Washington only nods, not trusting his voice. As he withdraws toward the door, he feels Alexander's eyes follow his every step.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Necessary Evil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457759) by [Critrawkets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Critrawkets/pseuds/Critrawkets)




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